When The Heartache Ends
by A-blackwinged-bird
Summary: Story complete. A school bus crashes and Starsky and Hutch are there to help rescue the children. Next, they need to find the person responsible.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This one is special to me, guys. Any input is appreciated, as this is not yet finished. Story based on the outstanding song by Rob Thomas. 

Graphic violence warning- small children.

* * *

**"When The Heartache Ends"**

Hutch stood numbly before the violent carnage, staring at the horrific scene through a form of disquieted tunnel vision. For a brief moment, as he took everything in, all fell silent.

The day had started like any other. First Hutch woke to the warm sunrays streaming in through his window, then he joined Starsky and the two grabbed breakfast on the way to the police station, then they spent some time on paperwork and follow-up calls, and then the partners took to the streets. Lunch hour passed by uneventfully, and the afternoon slowly peaked. Bay City was in the midst of a record-setting heat wave and the high temperatures were keeping most people indoors- an apparently, most criminals off the streets. Those that braved the triple-digit temperatures, like construction crews or the homeless, were starting to be brought into hospitals for emergency treatment of heat stroke. One elderly man had died, and the cloudless sky gave little hope that any relief would be felt soon.

Starsky and Hutch had been sweating it out in the idling Torino on the corner of 9th and Sunset when the call came through. The car was pumping out freon-chilled air as fast as it was able, warring with the hot sun that was piercing the car's glass windows. When 3 o'clock arrived, Hutch had been staring at the car's bright red hood, watching the quivering heat waves rise off the polished surface and wondering if an egg really would be able to fry upon it. With his head pressed against the driver's window, Starsky had been dozing in a heat-induced lethargy, however both detectives found themselves wide awake when the operator's shaky voice came over the air waves.

_'Major accident… school bus involved… two civilian motorists DOA… every available unit…'_

Hutch had known the scene would be bad, that much was obvious. In the silence after the call, the air had changed, taking a chill and an electric charge. There was too much emotion in the operator's feminine voice- this was something big, something devastating. The Torino seemed unstoppable as it cut through traffic, smoothly and mechanically, as if the car knew that this call was important- this was the one that mattered.

He saw the smoke first. Ominous wisps of sickly gray smoke climbed into the bluest of blue skies, like a growing crack in the peaceful atmosphere. The smoke was twisting and turning like a hooded viper in the sky, a flag to all that something terrible and irreversible had occurred below. It was calling to them before they were close enough to understand the depth of destruction lay beneath, coiled in it's tight and scaly grip. Mesmerized by the darkness as a mouse by the viper's rhythmic weaving, Hutch opened the car door and stood.

As his gaze traveled earthwards, Hutch saw the twisted skeleton of the bright yellow school bus and felt something within him shatter, then fall heavily into his stomach.

Later, he would realize that it had been his heart.

The mechanics of the wreck were unimportant at this point. All that mattered was what Hutch could see now, and that was complete chaos. Two cars were smashed beyond recognition amidst a scattering of sooty car parts, shreds of tire, deep black skid marks and lots and lots of glistening, shattered glass that strongly resembled tear drops. The third vehicle, the school bus, lay on it's side with it's nose embedded in the side of an unforgiving earthen ditch. The entire length of the bus was dented and twisted and dirty, and Hutch's throat closed when he realized that it must have rolled over the two cars before coming to a smoldering rest twenty feet from the road.

Starsky had made a noise then, but Hutch's hearing had yet to return. Numbness had blanketed his senses, leaving only that of sight, and at the moment, even that was overloaded. Motorists-come-onlookers were beginnings to gather at a respectful distance now, standing along the shimmering highway wearing awed expressions of hesitation. All traffic had come to a stop. For one loud, echoing heartbeat, nothing moved.

It was the screaming that physically shook Hutch back to the present. Not the screaming of small children, not yet, right now it was the screaming sirens of ambulances and fire trucks and police cars that shattered the paralysis clinging to Hutch. He was moving then, and Starsky was right beside him, as it had been every other time they were faced with joy and despair alike. His legs were numb and threatened to buckle at the knees mid-stride but he couldn't stop, too much was at stake right now. His breath was gone- hadn't he gone jogging every morning to prevent things like this? Where was that superhuman strength when he needed it?

And so he broke through the dream-barrier his mind had erected around the scene, just in case he was still back in the Torino, sleeping. Noises erupted violently, suddenly the sun was too bright and hot, and pain was palpable in the air. He was close enough now to smell the death here. He passed the first car quickly- the driver's face was embedded in the spider-webbing of the windshield and blood and brain matter were splattered both inside and out. No amount of hope or talent could spare this victim's life.

Hutch fell into the side of the second car, his hands coming up to catch him just in time. The door was pushed inside the car but he tried to pull it open anyway, to no avail. Blood smeared across the driver's side window but there was still a chance- there was always a chance- so Hutch bent his arm tightly and rammed his elbow through the glass. Time was racing, there was no time to think. The heavy scent of copper- it was too strong to be blood, there was just too much- filled his nostrils and snaked down his throat, jerking on his stomach. Hutch ducked his head and he plunged inside the car. He leaned over the length of the car's bench seat, trying to find the driver's neck, to feel for a pulse- and there was the man's head, severed from it's body on the passenger floorboard, staring up at him with lifeless gray eyes.

Hutch back-peddled. His stomach flip-flopped but there was no time to be repulsed, or saddened. There were others.

Hutch ran towards the bus.

He had lost Starsky. Hutch couldn't think anymore, couldn't keep track of his partner and his sanity at the same time. He had only one function, and that was getting in that school bus and salvaging as many lives as he could. He was running on instinct now- not a cop's instinct, but a human being's instinct, one that operated on the most basic levels. Hutch couldn't think about anything, couldn't remember one word of his years of police training… his body moved because his heart told it to.

Hutch launched himself at the exposed underbelly of the bus, scrambling upwards by way of exhaust pipes and sagging fuel lines, ignoring the searing heat and the unstableness of the dirty, groaning metal. Something sharp bit into him, slicing his forearm as he crawled on top of the side of the bus. The yellow metal was hot as it absorbed the sun's merciless rays, and his hands were seared instantly. Undaunted, Hutch made his way to a window and before he could change his mind, dropped inside the bus.

He landed heavily and allowed his knees to give out, his feet crunching upon glass and grass and dirt and debris. He was in the belly of the beast, in the depths of Hell. All around him children were writhing and crying and screaming and pulling against whatever bonds that held them trapped. There was so much to do, to do right now, that Hutch felt himself ache with confusion. He stood upright and swallowed, wincing slightly as his dry throat scraped against itself. Then, breathlessly, made his way to the closest child and hit his knees beside her bleeding head.

A voice, it must have been his because his throat began hurt so badly, said, "It's okay sweetheart, help's here now. Can you move your arms and legs?"

The little girl looked up at him with the largest brown eyes he had ever seen, and also the most pain-filled. "Yeah, my leg hurts real bad though." Her lips trembled as she spoke and a tear slipped down her ivory cheek.

Hutch's chest burned and his eyes stung. "Okay, just try to relax, I'll get you out of here," he murmured and scooped her broken body into his arms, holding her tightly against his aching chest as he rose to his feet.

A sudden commotion at the rear of the bus caught his attention, and Hutch turned to see the rescue crews removing the back window of the school bus. One of the firemen leaned in through the window and waved his arms.

"Over here, bring her over here!"

Hutch obeyed, because he couldn't think for himself any longer. He was forced to walk past more crying, bloody children before handing the girl off to the open arms of the paramedics. Without pause, he turned and went back for more.

His surroundings became a swirling mass of activity as more rescuers- some uniformed and some civilian- swarmed the bus and grabbed children. Hutch was aware that his hands were trembling, but when your entire body is trembling, your hands aren't really that noticeable any more. Hutch spotted a small child pinned under a broken bus seat, pushing weakly against the heavy mass of cushion and metal. Hutch dropped to his knees next to the small boy, his unblinking eyes taking in the damage.

The boy's legs were crushed, Hutch was certain of it. Blood was everywhere, but it was impossible to tell how much had belonged to this little boy in particular. "Can you feel your toes?" Hutch asked the boy gently. His hand landed softly upon the boy's dirty forehead.

Tear-streaks glistened in the sunlight as the little boy shook his head. Grasped tightly between his tiny pink fingers was the handle of a plastic Scooby Doo lunchbox. Shards of glass lay haphazardly atop his bowl-cut hairstyle.

"I need help over here!" Hutch yelled, and the effort took all his strength, despite the weak results.

Within seconds a fireman was at his side and somehow, the two of them lifted the heavy bench seat off the little boy. The fireman snatched the little boy, and his lunchbox, and left Hutch standing there lost as he carried the boy to safety. Hutch felt the numbness in his muscles now, threatening to shut him down completely but he pushed it down where he could deal with it later. There were still others.

The next child he found was a little blonde girl. Her pigtails had been bloodied and were sticking to her head, staining the pink bows there. Her head was down and she was sobbing into her lap as she lay slumped against the broken window behind her.

"Come on sweetie, let's get you out of here," Hutch whispered, because that's all his raw throat would allow.

She raised her head to look at him with striking blue eyes and Hutch was taken aback by the amount of blood coating her chin and frilly dress. When she opened her mouth to speak, whatever tiny fragment of him that had been sheltered from this smothering heartbreak was obliterated.

All of her teeth had been knocked from her mouth and the blood was still pumping freely down her face.

Hutch's eyes dropped shut and he wished very very hard that all of this would be gone when he opened them again. Instead, he was once more looking into the liquid eyes of that six year-old girl with no teeth.

Someone bumped into him and he moved forward, using the momentum to scoop up the child. She clung to him as only small children can, with both hands wrapped around his neck and her heart pressed to his. He carried her to the line of waiting paramedics and passed her off, unconscious of the large blood spot now covering his shoulder. He turned to go back into the depths of this metal Hell when a hand grabbed him, pulling him back.

"That's it, man. There's no more. We're done."

Hutch wanted to collapse but more than that, he wanted to be alone. He wanted to be away from here. His cheeks felt heavy, like he would never smile again and at that moment, he didn't think he ever would. His chest was crushed and hollow and hurting- he had to get away from the smell of blood and pain and death. He had to get away.

Hutch stumbled out into the sunlight- it was still there, uncaring, unrelenting- and moved forwards. His eyes were blurry and he dared not try to clear them, didn't want to clear them. He had seen enough. More than enough. He would never stop seeing the images of those damaged little children. The Torino was shining in the distance, calling to him and promising of familiarity, but he chose not to go to it. Everything hurt, both inside and out, and not even the comfort of that solid car would help this time.

His eyes locked briefly with Starsky's. The brunet had seemingly put himself in charge of this whole operation, directing emergency vehicles and emergency personnel alike. Anger flared within Hutch. Bright blue tarps had been placed over the mangled cars, signaling the occupants were deceased, dead. The bodies he had seen so very close were covered up, hidden from view so as not to disturb anyone. Starsky was safe out here, he had not been at ground zero, not seen the broken and bleeding children trapped within what they had come to trust as a vehicle of safety. It wasn't fair, why did Hutch have to feel all this pain and not Starsky? Why did he have to be alone?

Then, Hutch watched as Starsky held back a hysterical mother trying to reach a white sheet strapped to a gurney. It wasn't the sheet, Hutch realized dumbly, it was the mangled body underneath it that had the woman screaming and beating his partner with clenched fists.

And then Hutch felt his mouth fill with bitter stomach bile and he turned and ran for the nearest bushes. How dare ever doubt Starsky like that, think Starsky had chosen the easy way out. How dare he ever hope that his partner felt pain. Hutch crashed to the ground beside a full-grown thistle and vomited harder than he ever had before in his many years as a police officer.

Tears dripped hotly from his eyes as he dug his hands into the dry soil in an effort to keep himself from falling face first into the mess he was still making. He was making incredibly embarrassing noises as he continued to vomit, spitting out the bitter substance as fast as it would fill his mouth. Looking down through blurry vision, he saw that his left forearm was streaked with dark, congealed blood. It didn't hurt though. His ribs ached, his lungs ached, his heart ached.

Everything else was still numb.

Hutch waited for his partner to come to him, to lay a hand on his back and scrape him up off the ground- but this was the real world, and Starsky was still needed where he was.

So Hutch sat alone with misery as his company, staring at the overgrown, spiny weed beside him, and noticed for the first time just how beautiful a purple thistle bloom could be.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Many thanks to all those who provided feedback. Please continue.

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Starsky eased the Torino to a stop in the shadows of Hutch's apartment. The sun was setting deep into the horizon now, leaving blood-red streaks in the sky like angry fingernail scratches upon soft flesh. The temperature had dropped marginally and it was no longer suffocating to take a deep breath. Nature's cycle was turning, and the inhabitants of Bay City were preparing for the night.

Starsky killed the engine and let his hand fall to his thigh. The partners sat unmoving in the silence, simply staring out the windshield and not really looking at anything. The soft sound of breathing filled the car. Starsky's heart beat against his chest in a steady rhythm and soon the burning silence became uncomfortable.

At last, Starsky drew in a breath. He turned towards Hutch and without looking at him said, "I'm staying here tonight."

Hutch shook his head, like Starsky had expected. The blond turned away, looking towards the dark apartment building. "It's alright. You don't have to."

"I want to."

"I'll be okay," Hutch said, raising his voice a little as he turned towards the windshield again, still not looking at Starsky. "You don't need to baby-sit me."

Starsky propped an elbow on door, feeling the coolness of the glass and ran his hand through his dirty hair. "I don't want to baby-sit you, I want to be there for you. I want you to be there for me. Isn't that how it works?"

Hutch's eyes fell shut for a few moments. "I'll call you," he said, and opened the door.

Starsky watched him get out. The pain inside grew stronger, but if he tried to force himself upon Hutch now, Hutch would get angry and push him completely out of the picture. Starsky couldn't bear that, more than he couldn't bear letting Hutch go now. They needed to heal from this, and being there for each other was the best way- but sometimes that included waiting silently for the other. Waiting for however long it took. They would beat this heartache, they had before, but it would take time.

"Hey," he called softly just as Hutch began to push the door shut.

Hutch froze, and leaned forward the slightest bit. "Yeah?"

Suddenly Starsky didn't know what to say. 'Take it easy'? 'Don't do anything stupid'? He blinked and stared at Hutch with his mouth open, feelings of concern bubbling up and rushing his throat until it grew tight.

Hutch gave the faintest of smiles. "I know."

The door banged shut with a sickening finality. Starsky watched his partner walk towards the dark apartment building then disappear inside.

A part of himself followed.

He turned towards the streetlight then, his gaze dropping to the glistening pavement outside as the memories of the past 8 hours came crashing back.

53 children had been on that bus when it crashed. 23 of them were sent to the hospital, and two of them were still in critical condition. Nobody seemed to know why the bus refused to stop. It had been checked earlier in the week and found to be in perfect operating condition. The driver had a flawless record.

But today, for whatever unjustifiable reason, that bus load of elementary school children plowed through an intersection and killed two motorists before coming to a violent stop in a ditch. Being there, on ground zero, in the heartbreaking aftermath of it all had been hard to say the least. He and Hutch had remained on the scene for the rest of the afternoon, writing reports and directing traffic and other things that they normally would hand off to the uniforms. The extremity of the accident required every available officer and then some.

Starsky knew his partner had seen the worst of it. He had watched Hutch dive into that bus and begin rescuing children like he had been doing it all his life. He knew how tightly Hutch had sealed himself, closing himself off from the onslaught of pain and suffering that plagued the crash site. It was something they both had learned how to do, learned how to perfect. You put up your walls, blockade all the weak spots, and simply plow forward. You collect the pain like tuna in a net, and deal with the pain later.

Starsky had been dragged away before he reached the bus, and appointed to 'Chaos Director' of the entire operation. He had held back countless parents as they screamed and cried over their trapped and inured children. He had been hit, kicked and bitten, but that pain was nowhere near the anguish of seeing all those broken children. There had been a line for the ambulances, organized by what child needed medical attention the most. Helicopters circled the sky, broadcasting the carnage for the entire nation to see. People were everywhere, some helping, some in the way. Traffic was at a standstill for miles. It was, without a doubt, the worst thing Starsky had ever experienced.

And then Starsky had spotted Hutch over at the side of the road, puking onto the weeds while kneeling on his hands and knees. Starsky would have been at his partner's side right then and there if it weren't for another hysterical family member flinging herself towards one of the tarp-covered cars. Starsky grabbed her, let her beat him with her fists, and handed her off to another officer. By the time he looked back to the side of the road, Hutch was gone.

Starsky took a deep breath and blinked, his eyes burning as the pavement outside came back into focus. He wondered briefly what it was that made the blacktop sparkle like that, glittering with a beauty it had no right to possess. The sun was even deeper in the sky now and the streetlights along the road burned brightly. With a shaky hand, he reached up and scrubbed his face, feeling the muscles loosen at the pressure.

Starsky looked up at Hutch's window.

The lights were off. There was no movement.

With a heavy heart, he started the Torino. The engine rumbled to life obediently, then idled patiently as he sat with his foot on the brake. This was wrong, being alone tonight, but it was what Hutch wanted, demanded. Starsky could respect that. After a day of unjustified tragedy, he could give his partner some needed isolation.

They would make it through this. Maybe not tonight, but they would make it through this.

Starsky would be here, waiting patiently, whenever Hutch needed him.

He shifted the car into drive and pulled into the street, heading towards his own dark and desolate apartment.

o0O0o

For three hours, Hutch had sat on the floor under the window, guitar in his lap, and stared into the street below. Occasionally, a car would pass down the road and continue out of sight, completely oblivious to the turmoil in the second-floor apartment. A cloud of moths fluttered about the streetlamps, colliding with the bright lights over and over with the hope of warming themselves.

Hutch wondered if they ever died doing that.

Hutch let himself into his dark apartment and dropped the keys somewhere near the door, ignoring the jangle they made as they landed on the floor. He leaned back against the door to close it, then simply stood in the black silence. The streetlights filtered through the street-front windows, casting long and empty shadows across the room. Nothing made a sound, nothing moved- not even the plants. A fearful tension hung in the air as the ficus dared the fern to drop a leaf.

Hutch pushed himself off the door and moved about the apartment, shedding his gun and holster and picking up his guitar and a bottle of whiskey, then slid to the floor next to the large front window.

He had watched Starsky sit in his car for nearly twenty minutes after Hutch had left, and he was just pushing himself to his feet when Starsky started the car and drove into the night. So, Hutch slid back down wall and resumed his position propped up against the wall.

He cradled the guitar in his lap, and he gripped it as if to play, but no notes sounded from it. Giving up, Hutch reached beside him and wrapped his fingers around the glass of alcohol he poured himself earlier. This was the hard stuff, the stuff he kept on a shelf and had to dust occasionally.

This was the stuff that burned going down.

Hutch took another sip, savoring the pain the liquid brought with it. The apartment was dark and quiet, and through the thin walls he could hear the neighbor's television set broadcasting the story of the school bus wreck. The reporter's sterile words sent Hutch into a trance as he watched the moths and remembered the grisly things he had witnessed that day.

Images of blood and gore and tears and glass and smoke chased each other around in his head and Hutch was forced to close his eyes against the pain they caused. Screams and cries echoed in his ears and suddenly his fingers were dragging over the guitar strings in an effort to block the sounds. He didn't know what the song was, nor did he care, as long as it drowned the grief in his mind.

But then there was the pain of refusing Starsky's comfort. He knew the brunet needed solace as much as he was willing to give it. Hutch felt sick at the hurt look in his partner's deep blue eyes as he shut the Torino's heavy door, placing a barrier between them. Denying Starsky his company hurt very much, but something prickly and twisted writhed within Hutch and he just needed to be alone tonight.

Alone with a song and a bottle of whiskey.

The slow, sorrowful notes that trickled from the guitar seemed to come straight from his heart. Pain welled up within him suddenly, and Hutch shut his eyes against it all, simply listening to what his heart was trying to say.

For countless minutes, Hutch sat against the wall and simply moved his fingers against the taught strings. When he finally opened his eyes, the sky was pitch black and so was the edges of his apartment. Somehow, the blindness soothed him and Hutch had no intention of getting up to turn on a light. The weak light from the streetlight cast long shadows over his furniture, and that was enough to navigate by, should he chose to move.

Hutch took another long swallow of the alcohol and set the glass down closer to him. The heavy ache in his chest was beginning to fade, and maybe he would get some sleep tonight after all. The jagged things tearing at his heart were growing blunt now.

His stomach cramped as if the weight of the whiskey were too much. Food was totally out of the picture. His stomach revolted just looking at the refrigerator. His muscles were heavy with fatigue, and he knew he stunk of sweat and blood. At some point during the day, he must have held still long enough for someone to care for the cut on his arm, for it was covered neatly with white gauze and tape. It still stung a little when he moved it, but that was nothing compared to the solid, leaden despair in his chest.

He doubted that pain would ever go away.

It was all so senseless, so frustrating, and that's was stung the most. Nobody knew why the bus couldn't stop. An entire day had passed and no one had any answers. 23 children were hospitalized because… why? 2 innocent people were dead because…?

Hutch tossed the guitar aside more forcefully than he intended and the hollow instrument made a strangled noise as it hit the end of the couch. Anger swirled within him as the constant drone of the reporters filtered through the wall. Why was the human race so entranced with other people's pain? Why was grief so easy to solicit?

Folding his arms around his waist, Hutch leaned his head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. He took a deep breath, dispelling the stagnant air from his lungs and closed his eyes. The face of the toothless little girl slammed against his mind's eye as if the picture had been taped to the backs of his eyelids and Hutch jerked, automatically reaching for the glass and downing the rest of the amber liquid.

When it was gone he set the glass down and grabbed the bottle, tilting it to pour more, then thought 'What the Hell,' and tilted the bottle to his lips instead.

His belly was on fire briefly, then the feeling left him and Hutch found himself content, even sated. His eyes were beginning to blur and when he risked shutting them again, all he saw was vacuous blackness.

At last, the whiskey was shutting him down.

It was time to move this little pity party into the bedroom.

Hutch pushed himself to his feet, catching himself on the wall as he overbalanced. He was suddenly aware of a pressure on his bladder and pushed off the wall towards the bathroom. It had been a while since he had gotten drunk like this, alone and in attempt to ease unrelenting pain, and Hutch had forgotten about this part.

Moments later he was standing over the toilet, one hand on the sink to steady himself (because there was nothing worse than cleaning up urine stains that had sat all night), and tried to keep his eyes open. The room was tilting to the left, which did not help his aim any. Hutch tried to make it come out faster, before the room turned upside down.

At last, he was finished. Hutch stumbled into his room, not risking the additional coordination of trying to undress, and simply fell face first onto his pillow. A warm fog was embracing him, wrapping him up in a thick shield and numbing his heartache. He couldn't remember if he was supposed to work tomorrow, but at the moment he didn't really care. He'd be lucky to wake up before noon.

A little voice in his head told him that Starsky would be here tomorrow, letting himself into the apartment and waking up him up, offering a cup of black coffee, and maybe then they would talk about whatever it was they needed to talk about.

Maybe tomorrow, they could have breakfast and carryout their normal routine.

Maybe tomorrow, when the fog lifted and the heartache ended.


	3. Chapter 3

Hutch had actually slept _through_ his hangover.

When he awoke the next morning and found his head not throbbing and his stomach not rolling, he had sent up a meaningful prayer of thanks. But then, another thought struck him- a worse thought, like maybe the joke was on him and something much worse was about to happen. Maybe his head would fall completely off, or his stomach would actually launch itself out of his body. Hutch lay in the bed, flat on his back, and tried to keep very still.

He stared at the little white bumps on the ceiling (what _were_ those things, anyway?) and let his senses paint a picture around him. Sunlight filled the bedroom and his hungry plants reached up towards it hungrily. Pigeons fluttered and clucked on the gutter above his window, and occasionally a single, downy feather would drift down to the sidewalk. The air smelled stale and dusty and sour, and when he turned his head into the pillow, something slimy and cold smeared his cheek.

Hutch jerked awake, sitting upright faster then should have been humanly possible, and blinked away the fogginess from his eyes.

A puddle of vomit laughed at him from where it lay sprawled over his pillowcase.

Hutch's lips curled up in disgust.

So maybe he had drank a little excessively last night, he thought as he stumbled into the bathroom. He bent over the sink, catching himself as his skull nearly collided with the mirror, and turned on the cold water. He splashed his face and rinsed his mouth, then abandoned the futile effort and turned on the shower. After bracing himself against the counter, Hutch peeled off his clothes and kicked them into a pile in the corner.

Steam began thickening the air as miniscule water droplets swirled about. The mirror clouded over and dampness clung to his bare skin. He had one foot in the tub when he realized the bandage was still on his arm. Without a second though, Hutch ripped the tape from his skin and moved all the way into the stream of water.

Hutch couldn't remember the last time a shower had felt so good. He could actually feel the sweat and grime rinsing from his body. He simply stood there, relaxing against the shower wall as tinted water swirled the drain before disappearing.

If only getting rid of memories were that easy.

By the time the water shut off, Hutch had scrubbed himself raw. The slice on his arm was reddened and throbbing, and blood slowly welled up and beaded on his skin.

The pain felt good.

He hadn't cried- after all, he wasn't the one who lost somebody. He hadn't been trapped in that school bus as it crumpled and killed two motorists before coming to a violent stop in the dry ground. No, he had nothing to cry about.

Hutch grabbed the towel and tied it around his waist. With one hand he swiped at the mirror, then stared at himself in the small area of wet glass.

He looked… tired. Worn. Haggard. Like someone that had seen too much.

He looked the same way he felt.

Hutch rubbed at his reddened eyes then grabbed the toothbrush. Starsky would be here soon. In fact, Hutch was a little surprised that the brunet wasn't here already, helping himself to the refrigerator and complaining about the skim milk. So Hutch moved about the apartment, kicking dirty clothes out of sight, changing the bed sheets, and returning the near-empty bottle of whiskey to it's proper place. He scrubbed at his teeth as he walked, his hand moving back and forth, back and forth, until his mouth was so full of toothpaste suds that he had to spit.

He watched the foam swirl down the drain then tossed the brush back in the cup where it landed with a clank. There. So far, so good.

Hutch was just pulling a T-shirt over his head when a familiar knock sounded on his door.

"Hey, Hutch? You awake yet?"

Hutch moved to the door and noticed that the sun seemed to be shining just a little bit brighter now. He pulled open the door, revealing Starsky standing in the doorframe, and a small smile bends his face. "Aren't you a little late?"

"You didn't call me," Starsky says and he pushed past Hutch and into the kitchen.

Hutch's smile fell away. "I forgot."

Starsky opened the refrigerator and pulled out the quart of milk. His head was down, but Hutch could still see Starsky's eyes darting around the apartment. "You forgot?"

Hutch shrugged. "I got busy."

"Doing what?"

Hutch sighed and grew stiffer. "It doesn't matter. Look, I'm sorry I didn't call you. You didn't call me either," he added as an afterthought.

Now Starsky shrugged. "It's no big deal. Don't get defensive. It's not like we're dating or anything." He replaced the milk and mumbled, "It's just that when you say you'll call…"

Hutch clenched his jaw, then brought one hand up to rub his face. "Are you ready?" he asked tiredly, glancing towards the door. "There's got to be a ton of paperwork waiting for us…."

Starsky held very still and Hutch could feel eyes upon him as he stared at the carpet.

"Hey."

Finally, Hutch looked up. "Starsky, don't. Let's just get to work, okay?"

Starsky glanced at the guitar sitting propped up in the corner, then turned those concerned blue eyes on Hutch once more. "At least tell me if you're okay."

"Yeah," he replied, then searched Starsky's eyes. "Are you?"

"I will be," Starsky nodded, and Hutch wanted to kick himself for being so selfish.

He looked at Starsky for what seemed like a long time as worries and emotions swirled about in his mind. One good look into those familiar blue eyes told Hutch that his partner was suffering also as there, deep down and buried by concern, Hutch could see the pain in Starsky's eyes. And why shouldn't Starsky be hurting? Starsky had been there, had seen what Hutch had seen… they had both played a major role in cleaning up the horrific wreckage. Starsky had to hold hysterical parents away from their injured children for Christ's sake- of course he would be traumatized. Starsky needed him, and Hutch hadn't been there.

That would change right now.

"What do you say we sneak out early and head over to Huggy's?" Hutch asked, looking hopefully at Starsky.

Starsky cocked his head slightly, as if trying to determine whether or not Hutch was being sincere.

"Uh, sure. That sounds good."

Hutch smiled, and this time, Starsky returned one of his own.

o0O0o

Hutch had barely turned from the coffee pot when Starsky snatched the warm mug from his hands.

"Didn't I get you your own mug for your birthday?"

"The one that says 'I'm out of my mind but feel free to leave a message'? Yeah, partner, you did get me a mug of my own."

Hutch grinned. "Hey, if the shoe fits…"

Starsky furrowed his brows into the mug as he took a long drink. Done, he handed Hutch back the half-empty mug of black coffee. "Guess it's time to get in there and get to work, huh?"

Hutch looked down the hall towards the squad room and didn't bother trying to hide his reluctance. "Yeah. Guess so."

Starsky hefted an arm up and around Hutch's shoulders. "Maybe we can find some answers. Bring some peace to those parents."

Hutch nodded, hating how his throat was already tightening. After a moment, Starsky dropped his hand and together they entered the squad room and took their seats. Sure enough, a large, ominous manila file lay casually over both their desks. They glanced to each other then Starsky reached out to pick it up.

"Starsky! Hutchinson! My office!"

Starsky withdrew his hand and Hutch noticed the flash of relief in his blue eyes. They raised to their feet as one and turned, leaving the file untouched.

They passed over the Dobey-threshold and Starsky pulled the door shut with his foot, silencing the busy sounds from the squad room. The captain glared at Starsky but didn't comment.

"Sit down," he said instead, as he sat down himself.

That was what Hutch liked most about the black man- he was a man of little words. Harold Dobey got straight to the point, used blunt words, honest words, and you always knew where you stood with the man. Hutch admired that.

Dobey's stern glare melted into a frown of concern. "I know what you boys went through yesterday, and I'm sorry. It was very difficult for everyone involved." He paused and Hutch realized that it could have been Rosie on that bus. That image stirred new emotions in Hutch as Dobey asked, "Are you okay?"

Neither partner looked at each other. Hutch nodded his head as Starsky mumbled in the affirmative.

Dobey looked between them with a scowl, much like a bear deciding which trout to swipe from the river.

"Hutch, you can leave now. I set the report on your desk. Why don't you go take a look at it?"

Hutch blinked. Why was he the one being excused? He didn't want to go, he wanted to stay. Stay and hear what they would talk about. Who they would talk about.

He stood up. "You know where to find me," he said to Starsky.

Starsky raised a hand as his head ducked, and Hutch left the office without another glance at Dobey.

He pulled the door shut behind him so that it banged in the doorframe. Ignoring the looks from the other officers, Hutch moved to his desk and sat down heavily. The day had barely started and already he was wound tighter than a spring. He set his elbows on the desk and dropped his head into his hands, using his fingers to massage his temples. Perhaps he hadn't slept completely through his hangover.

With his head still bowed, Hutch looked at the file. It was labeled without emotion, simply reading 'School Bus Crash', and followed with yesterday's date. With a deep breath, he reached out and grabbed it, then slid it over the desk so that he was looking down upon it.

He fingered the edge of the folder. Already, memories were popping into his mind faster than he could shut them out. The sounds seemed to float up to him from the file and he heard screams and cries and crunching glass and tears.

Hutch's unwavering stare began to loose focus and he blinked the burn from his wet eyes. This was ridiculous. It was only a pile of paper. He could do this. He could open the file, read the report, and put together a plan of action.

His index finger slid down the length of cardboard and when it reached the bottom, he flipped open the file.

A menagerie of typed reports, handwritten notes, and photographs filled his vision.

Elementary school bus.

52 children.

23 of them hospitalized.

3 fatalities.

The bus driver and two innocent motorists were dead on arrival. The bus driver was cited with failing to stop at an intersection, for reasons yet unknown.

Unknown?

Hutch felt himself growing even tenser. How can the reason for such a horrible wreck be unknown!

His hands tightened into fists at his temples and his knuckles turned white before he exploded from the hard wooden chair. He had to get away from these photos, this file, this squad room-

Hutch grabbed his jacket and left.

o0O0o

"Tell me."

"Cap'n…"

"Starsky, I sent Hutch outta here so that I could get a straight answer. Now tell me really, how are you?"

Starsky sank down even further in the cushioned chair. Maybe if he slipped to the floor, he would fall right through it and spare himself the look he was currently getting from Dobey. "I'm fine."

Dobey snorted. "Like hell you're fine. No one who was at that crash yesterday is fine. Myself included." He leaned back in his chair and it creaked with its burden. "Do I need to send the two of you down for a psych evaluation?"

"No."

"I will."

"No," Starsky repeated, this time whining a little. "Of course it's hard, is that what you want to hear? I saw so many hurt kids yesterday, and dealt with so many upset parents… " His eyes locked on Dobey's. "It's a little depressing, sure. Okay, it's a lot depressing, but Hutch and I have each other and we're gonna do the best we can on this case."

Dobey held Starsky's gaze a moment longer before nodding. "See that you do, Starsky."

o0O0o

He needed a drink.

Hutch moved down the sidewalk, away from the police station and away from the disturbing images in that file. His body thirsted for alcohol- or more specifically, the release it brought.

He couldn't go to The Pits. Huggy was a friend, and a good one, and would try to make Hutch open the bag of haunts he was carrying around inside of him. Hutch wasn't ready to face those demons yet.

So Hutch walked, aiming for the closest bar. If it wasn't open, he would sit on the front step and wait.

A deep rumble sounded next to him, and without tearing his gaze from the sidewalk below his feet, Hutch said, "You joining me?"

The Torino rolled down the street, its large engine unhappy at having to move so slowly. Starsky had the windows rolled down and he leaned over, looking at Hutch through the passenger window. "Where you going?"

Hutch shrugged. "Away."

Starsky glanced at the road then back at his partner. "You wanna get in the car instead?"

Hutch walked a few more steps then stopped, facing the Torino with his hands in his pockets. He leaned down a little to look at Starsky. "Where you going?"

"The morgue. It's not to far from 'away', I hear. I can drop you off."

Hutch looked into his partner's smile and couldn't help but return it. "It's getting too hot out here anyway," he said, pulling open the Torino's heavy door. He slid onto the seat, which was hot from the sun, but immediately felt the cool blast from the air conditioner. Hutch shivered as the sweat froze upon his skin.

Starsky pulled into traffic and jabbed a finger at the light jacket Hutch had tossed on the floorboard. "Why do you bother with that? It's never gonna be cool enough to wear it. The temperature is never gonna drop below 'hell'."

Hutch looked at the jacket also. Why did he carry it? For something to keep his hands busy? In hopes that the temperature would drop? Because he just plain liked it?

"You don't know. Maybe one day it'll rain."

"Rain?" Starsky asked sarcastically. "What's that?"

"You know, water falling from the sky…" Hutch played along, thankful that Starsky's presence was lifting his spirits. Keeping his mind off the problems at hand. "It's kinda like a cold shower."

Starsky grinned, then smiled- a serious, meaningful smile that Hutch recognized. It meant, 'This, right here, is what I love the most about us. Let's never stop being like this, okay?'

Hutch relaxed against the leather bench seat, and smiled back.


	4. Chapter 4

"Is it suppose to make that squishy sound?"

Starsky shifted his weight anxiously, swallowing the hard lump of nausea in his throat. He looked at Hutch, who was on the opposite side of the metal examining table.

Bill Riley, the no-nonsense medical examiner who presumed everyone knew as much about anatomy as he did, looked at Starsky over his glasses. "Mr. Bandy is dead, detective. The sounds his body makes are out of his control."

Hutch raised one eyebrow and tried to hide a smirk.

Starsky huffed quietly and scuffed his shoe on the gray tile floor, trying his best to not look at the body laying open on the table before him. The smell of formaldehyde and death lingered heavily in the air and Starsky rubbed his nose. He wanted to leave. "So what can you tell us?"

Bill stretched back the large flap of skin that belonged over Bandy's ribs and pointed. "He died of massive blunt trauma, probably from hitting the steering wheel. The impact cracked six ribs and punctured both his lungs. I removed almost one gallon of blood from his chest cavity. This man drowned almost instantly."

Hutch made a small sympathetic sound. "What a way to go, huh?"

Bill shoved the flap of skin back over Bandy's torso and Starsky jumped back as juices splattered. "The interesting thing," Bill continued, peeling back a different area of skin, "Is this man's liver. See that?"

Starsky winced as he leaned forward, trying to see what Bill was pointing at without actually moving closer.

Bill was tapping an oblong organ the color of mud. "A normal liver isn't this big, and is much darker in color. This," he said with a particularly hard jab, "is what we call a 'fatty liver'."

"Fatty liver?" Starsky echoed, trying to ignore the squishing sounds. How was fat important?

Hutch blinked, his eyes still glued to the body on the table. Quietly, he said, "A precursor to cirrhosis."

"Exactly," Bill nodded. Starsky's eyes were glued to Hutch, who was doing his best to avoid eye contact as Bill continued, "I ran a sample of blood and although the results may be a little off, this man had a blood alcohol level of at least .10."

Starsky connected the dots quickly. "He was drunk?"

"Yes."

"Well how do you like that," Starsky growled. "A drunk bus driver." He shook his head, feeling his muscles grow tight. "He deserves what he got."

"Starsky," Hutch warned lowly, and Starsky tried to compose himself.

And failed.

"He put 23 kids in the hospital, Hutch," Starsky argued. "He killed two men. And why, because he was drunk?" Starsky felt what little composure he had come undone and Hutch looked away. "No, I say he deserves it."

"He was more than drunk," Bill interrupted, closing the body. "He was an alcoholic."

Starsky stared at the face of Tom Bandy, cold and white against the stainless steel he lay on. The bus driver had no previous criminal record of any type. He had been driving buses for the city for almost twenty years. He had family. What drove a man like that to the bottle? And what drove a man to act so carelessly when he held the lives of children in his hands?

Starsky raised his gaze to meet Hutch's. His partner's pale eyes radiated exhaustion and sadness. Starsky's own gaze softened at the sight, silently questioning Hutch.

Hutch only blinked and looked away.

"I hope you get some answers, detectives," Bill said, breaking the silence as he pulled a white sheet up over the body. "And please don't send me anyone else for a while, okay?"

The room seemed to brighten as the cadaver disappeared. Starsky took a step back towards the doors, not failing to notice how the air also became cleaner. "Thanks Riley. Good job."

The medical examiner merely waved them off as the detectives pushed through the swinging double doors and stepped into the hallway. Starsky looked at Hutch as the door swung shut. They were alone in the hallway, and something needed to fill the silence.

"You look a little green."

Hutch looked up. "Looking at human organs tends to do that to a person."

Starsky narrowed his eyes. "You're hiding something."

"No I'm not!"

Starsky watched as Hutch first held his gaze, then looked around the hallway, then began to shuffle his feet. Whatever Hutch wanted to say, he probably wasn't going to talk in the sterile hallway of a morgue. "You wanna go get something to eat?"

A small sigh, then, "Fine."

Together, they turned away from the morgue doors and headed for the stairs. "So this is an open and shut case, huh?" Starsky asked. "It's almost a shame Bandy died. I woulda liked to send him to prison."

"It's a disease, Starsky, the man couldn't help it."

"The man couldn't help it?" Starsky echoed, stopping on the step above Hutch and spinning to face him. "You were there, Hutch, you saw what he did to those children- those families! How can you defend that creep?"

"I'm not defending him, I'm just explaining. Addiction is a powerful thing, you can't just-"

"No, stop right there. Do not project yourself into this. What Bandy did is nothing like what was done to you."

A haunting shadow passed behind those pale eyes and Starsky felt a twinge of empathy. Even after all these years, Hutch still had a Pavlovian response to the topic of Ben Forest. Starsky took a breath and started up the stairs again. He listened as Hutch followed, the sounds of their shoes scraping over concrete echoing in the stairwell. It seemed Hutch was experiencing some major haunts lately, and Starsky was a little at a loss on how to help. Moody Hutch was often a quiet Hutch, and trying to pry him open was about as hard as getting him to eat fast food.

The thought made Starsky's stomach rumble. They reached the top of the stairs and made their way outside. "Let's swing by Huggy's for some lunch and then we'll head back to the station to type up our reports. I can't do paperwork on an empty stomach."

Starsky_ felt_ Hutch raise an eyebrow. "You can't do paperwork period."

He smiled as Hutch moved up beside him. "That's why I keep you around, partner." Hutch's dark, overhead clouds seemed to recede for the moment and Starsky enjoyed his partner's jabs. They reached the Torino and Starsky slid into the passenger seat, wincing at the heat that stung him even through his jeans.

Beside him, Hutch had a similar reaction. "Jeez Starsk, you still think the black leather is such a good idea? Would it kill you to throw a towel down or something?"

"That would be an insult to the countless assembly line workers who put this car together," Starsky replied, starting the engine and turning the air conditioning up as far as it would go. A blast of stagnant hot air met them face-first and both detectives turned away.

"At least park in the shade or something," Hutch whined, rolling down the window and trying to dispel the hot air.

Starsky looked around them, seeing nothing but pavement and office buildings. "There is no shade when you live in the concrete jungle." He shifted into drive and with a lurch, pulled out into the street. His hands danced over the hot steering wheel in an effort to avoid blisters. This was possibly the worst heat wave in fifty years, and the end was nowhere in sight.

Finally, the air turned cold and Starsky relaxed into the seat. "Maybe we'll get a couple days off when this is all over," he said hopefully, glancing at Hutch. "We could go to Alaska or something."

Hutch snorted as he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. "And what would you do in Alaska?"

"Nothing, dummy, that's the point. We could just… chill out."

"That's clever."

"Thanks."

"Tell you what," Hutch started, angling the side vent a couple degrees to the left, "If you can get Dobey to approve a vacation, I'll go with you anywhere."

Starsky grinned. "I'm holding you to that."

"Fine." Quietly, Hutch added, "Good luck."

A few minutes later, they arrived at the Pits. The mid-day crowd was fairly large, and finding a parking place required a bit of an effort. Heat waves licked at their calves from the black-top parking lot, and Starsky felt that if he stopped moving, he would sink into the tar like it was quick sand.

And he would definitely hate to lose his favorite shoes.

A cold breeze met them as Starsky pulled open the restaurant's door. Although the cold air felt good, the dramatic temperature changes were starting to give him a headache. He followed as Hutch led the way to a couple of vacant bar stools and all but collapsed into the seat.

"Well well, if it ain't my two favorite cats," Huggy greeted as he placed two mugs of beer before them. "Tell me, is it still hot out there?"

"There's some guy with horns and a pitchfork running around out there," Starsky quipped as he latched onto the cold glass. "He's scaring away your customers. You might wanna do something about him."

Huggy chuckled and leaned onto the bar. "What can I get for you two this fine afternoon? To eat, I mean," he added, watching each of the detectives gulp the brew.

Starsky get his mug down one swallow sooner than Hutch. "I'll just take my usual. Extra onions."

Hutch cringed. "Not if I have to sit across from you all afternoon. Besides, how can you be hungry with the heat as bad as it is?"

Starsky looked to Huggy. "Bring him his usual too."

Huggy shook his head, smiling at the detectives. "I should just put it on the menu like that- The Starsky and Hutch Lunch Special."

Starsky watched him head to the kitchen and took another drink. "What's the heat got to do with my appetite, anyway?"

Hutch simply shook his head. "Forget it."

Starsky sighed and watched as Hutch dragged a finger around the top of his mug. So it was back to Moody Hutch, was it? The sooner he got Hutch talking, the sooner things would go back to normal between them. "So you gonna tell me what's bothering you?" Silently, he wondered, 'Why you're running so hot and cold lately?'

That is, aside from the accident yesterday.

Hutch shook his head once. "I told you, nothing."

"Bull."

Hutch let his hand drop and turned towards Starsky. "Starsky, I'm fine, okay? Forgive me for being a little depressed here, but not 24 hours ago, we were pulling children from a wrecked bus." He pushed the beer away a few inches. "Give me some time."

Starsky remained quiet for a few moments, studying his partner, and the way Hutch's words echoed in his skull. Was he simply being insensitive? Paranoid even? Sure the memories hurt Starsky as well- his heart was still bleeding- but there was a nagging suspicion that with Hutch, something larger was weighing upon his shoulders. And Starsky, the great detective, couldn't figure out what it was. He was frustrated.

"Alright," he yielded, slowing giving up. "Just don't forget, I'm right here… if you ever wanna talk, or anything."

"I know," Hutch replied, his voice just as soft yet perfectly audible over the buzz of the surrounding crowd.

Huggy soon returned with two plates of hot food. "Wish I could stay and chat fellas," Huggy said as he pushed the food towards them, "but I got more hungry mouths to feed. See ya round, okay?"

He was gone before Starsky could thank him.

Half an hour later, Starsky had all but licked his plate clean while Hutch was struggling to the half-way mark. Inwardly, Starsky recognized the sign as Red Flag #1, but he kept quiet. Hutch was a grown man, after all, and if he didn't feel like eating, then Starsky wasn't going to be the one to force-feed him. Let him wither away to nothing, that would teach him.

Starsky threw down his signature IOU, and the two made their way outside.

The wall of heat hit like a ton of bricks, and Starsky actually had to struggle for breath. This was ridiculous. "You know," he started as they crossed the parking lot- a.k.a. 'The Sierra', "You'd think that when people actually start dying from the heat, someone would figure out a way to cool everything down."

"I don't think it's that easy," Hutch started as Starsky opened the driver's side door.

"…Zebra Three, please respond."

Starsky snatched the mike. "Zebra Three here," he replied, leaning on the Torino's roof. A second later, intense pain exploded along his forearms and he jerked back, just now noticing the waves of heat rolling off the car.

Hutch smirked.

This time, Captain Dobey's voice came over the CB. "I want you two to head over to the impound lot. Forensics has something on the bus. You copy?"

Starsky's eyes lit up and for a moment, he forgot about his pounding head. "We're on it cap."

Starsky and Hutch slid into the Torino, this time expecting the burning leather, and Starsky replaced the mike. His heart beat faster as he gunned the engine.

Perhaps this case wasn't shut yet.

Maybe justice _would_ be served.

With a small squeal, the Torino shouldered its way into the flow of traffic and headed for the garage.


	5. Chapter 5

My apologies for the delay. I have no good reason.

* * *

"Wow, would ya look at that."

Hutch followed Starsky's pointing hand until he saw a young man wearing rubber gloves and a jump suit remove a white, brick-sized bundle from where it had been hidden behind the panel of a car door. Cocaine.

Hutch took a breath, smelling motor oil and chemicals, and turned away. He and Starsky were making their way through the bustling garage, turning every so often to avoid tripping hurried mechanics. Hutch felt out of place in his clean clothes and boots that tapped delicately upon the cement floor. The grating, high-pitched sound of drills echoed throughout the garage as cars were dismantled.

"There," he said, nodding towards where one crumpled yellow school bus was raised up on lifts. Directly beneath it stood an older man with graying hair, who alternated between reaching up into the underbelly of the bus and writing on a clipboard. It wasn't until Starsky and Hutch drew very close that the man realized their presence.

"Oh, detectives, you startled me." The man reached out a hand, saw that it was covered in soot and grease, then retracted. "I'm Herbert Miller, automotive forensics."

Starsky nodded. "I'm detective Starsky, this is my partner, Hutch." He took a step forward, looking up at the bus overhead. "Captain Dobey said you found something?"

"Uh, yeah," Herbert said distractedly, then began flipping through the pages on his clipboard. Hutch wondered if all scientists were squirrelly.

Herbert moved underneath the bus and glanced up at it quickly before looking back to Starsky and Hutch. "It's standard procedure for us to examine vehicles anytime there's been an accident. Especially one that has resulted in death," he began in a formal tone, sounding like he was starting a lecture.

Perhaps he was.

Hutch sighed, and Herbert picked up the pace.

"So, anyway, we're looking at the brake system. We ran complete diagnostics on the brake anchors, the brake bands, the brake cylinders… they all turned out normal. I'm afraid it was a waste of time, however, because our problem was much more obvious. Look at this."

Hutch slowly moved to stand underneath the large bus. How could a couple of simple lifts keep the enormous vehicle in the air for so long? He tensed as he stood in the shadow next to Starsky.

"This part here," Herbert continued, poking a dark box-type piece of machinery, "is the hydraulic unit. It controls the force of the brake fluid in the lines, thereby controlling how fast the bus stops."

Starsky reached up and grabbed a piece of loose tubing, then turned deep blue eyes on Hutch.

"Ah, I see you know what you're looking at, detective."

"The brake lines were cut," Starsky announced, seemingly unaware of Herbert's presence any longer.

"What?" Hutch questioned as he moved closer. He reached up, his fingers touching each of the four lines that connected to the hydraulic unit. They had been severed close to the pump, as if someone simply took a knife and ran it over all four lines in one swipe. "There's no way this could have happened during the accident?"

"I doubt it. The brake lines are cut too smoothly and all at the same angle."

Hutch looked at Starsky numbly. "So this just turned into a premeditated murder."

Herbert coughed lightly, breaking the detective's stares. "One thing bothers me though."

"What is it?" Starsky asked, finally dropping the brake line and letting his hand fall heavily.

"The emergency brakes are in tact. Why didn't the driver use them?"

"We've got a pretty good hunch on that," Starsky replied quietly.

Herbert nodded and flipped through some pages on his clipboard. "You'll be getting a full copy of my report by the end of the day. I just thought you might be interested in this."

"Yeah, thanks," Starsky said as Hutch shook himself from his trance-like state. "Good job, Herbert. This is pretty important."

Hutch followed Starsky out from underneath the bus. Premeditated murder. Someone intentionally cut those brake lines with the purpose of harming those children. Hutch's stomach twisted at the thought and he suddenly needed to get far away from that bus. He made his way across the garage as Starsky excused them.

Who would do such a thing? Children were innocent, the hope of humanity… we are suppose to protect our children, not send them to an early death. The thoughts and visions chased each other around in his head as he walked blindly. He could still hear their screams, their pleas for help… he could see the blood and smell the smoke and taste the death-

"Hutch!"

Hutch blinked and held out a hand just before he collided with a wall. Starsky was instantly beside him as he turned, leaning back against the cool concrete as his world stopped spinning. Under the sound of drills and revving engines, he could hear laughter. Hell, if it had been anyone but him, he'd probably laugh too.

"You okay? Didn't you see where you were going?"

"I'm fine," Hutch huffed. "Just embarrassed. Can we go now?"

Starsky raised an eyebrow and turned on that annoying penetrating look he wore when peering straight into Hutch's soul. Hutch turned his head, feeling somewhat naked under the scrutiny. Then Starsky relaxed, and took a step back. "Sure. Let's go."

Good, he must have passed the test.

They walked out to the Torino in silence, neither man in a good mood but Hutch in even less of one. The jolt from air conditioning to dry heat and back again was starting to give him a headache. Not a big one, just enough of an ache for you to be aware of its presence as it pounded steadily against your temple. The kind that drove you insane.

They got in the car and Starsky cranked the air conditioning to full blast. Once again, they were met with hot, stagnant air, then it began to cool. "You know where we gotta go now, right?" Starsky asked, waving at the guard as they drove through the open chain-link gate.

Hutch let his head fall back against the headrest as the car continued to cool. Yes, he knew where they needed to go, and just thinking about it caused the pain in his head to flare. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "The school." After, of course, returning to the station to gather employee backgrounds.

Starsky turned a corner, keeping his gaze off of Hutch. "You don't sound too excited."

It was bait, and Hutch knew it, but like a damn fish, he just had to bite.

"Of course I'm not excited. Didn't you watch the news? The bus drivers are appalled. The parents don't trust them anymore. The school board is investigating them, along with the Transportation Safety Board. Things are a mess."

"What if it's not a bus driver?"

Hutch tossed a hand in the air between them. The thought crossed his mind just as Starsky had spoken. "And it might not be a bus driver."

They rode in silence for a few minutes before Starsky began to glance at Hutch. He squirmed a little in the seat, then cleared his throat. "So, uh, what happened back at impound? With the wall, I mean."

"Starsk-"

"No, don't try to weasel out of this. I need you to hold it together on this." More softly, he added, "And I wanna help."

The words brought a stab of guilt. Starsky's tactics were improving.

Hutch sighed softly, looking intently at a small scratch on the otherwise flawless dashboard. "I just got to thinking, that's all."

"Thinking?"

"Remembering."

"Oh."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, only this time the void between them seemed to shrink a little. Hutch let his vision go blurry as he watched the scenery pass by. His heart ached not only for the children, but for the parents as well. They must feel devastated… and betrayed. School was like a church- sort of a Holy ground… you were supposed to be safe at school. Protected.

"It's just terrible, you know? It shouldn't have happened."

Starsky glanced at him, then patted Hutch's shoulder gently. "Yeah buddy, I know."

o0O0o

"I say we talk to the creepy guy in the sunglasses first."

Hutch looked at Starsky, who was studying the group of bus drivers intently. They were parked some distance away, with five manila background files in hand, and like lions, analyzing their prey in order to determine which one to take down first.

"Creepy, Starsk?" He looked back to the printouts. "That a technical term?"

"Sure it is. I use it in my repots all the time. So what's this guy's name?"

Hutch let his incredulous gaze linger on Starsky's profile a few seconds longer before clearing his throat. "Uh… his name is Terry Gray, I think." Hutch looked at the photo then squinted at the figure loitering fifty feet away.

"You think?" Starsky retorted, grabbing the file from Hutch's lap.

"Well he's far away and that picture was taken years ago…"

"Well let's go find out then, shall we?"

Both men sat silently, watching the waves off heat roll off the Torino's hood. Had it always been that red, or was the car starting to sun burn?

Starsky sighed. "Guess it's not getting any cooler." He grabbed the door handle.

"Yeah. Let's go."

Hutch reached for the door handle and stopped. He hated to go over there and upset the recently traumatized bus drivers, but even more, he hated to do it in the heat. He sighed, then with more force than should have been necessary, Hutch pushed open the passenger door and was immediately engulfed in dry torridity.

Yuck.

Hutch took a deep breath and pushed the heavy door shut behind him. Starsky was already making his way towards the large garage that served as the elementary school's bus barn. There were five remaining full-time drivers after the death of Tom Bandy. Just as Hutch presumed, they were all squeaky clean. The worst offense among the group was a ticket for littering. It looked like he and Starsky would have to do some digging to find any dirt.

Hutch was sweating by the time they were within shouting distance of the bus drivers. The group was milling around in the shade of the garage… some sitting on plastic lawn chairs and some leaning against the building. There had been no school today, but Hutch suspected the teachers and bus drivers were called in to attend meetings regarding yesterday's events, and what the future might hold.

"Hey, are you Terry Gray?" Starsky asked as he trotted up to the group.

Way to be subtle, Starsky.

Terry froze in that deer-in-the-headlights stance that Hutch was all too familiar with. "Yeah," the man replied slowly, facing Starsky but most likely searching for an escape route behind those dark sunglasses.

Starsky slowed to a stop and Hutch moved up beside him. Starsky reached for his badge and began, "I'm Detective St-"

Terry's eyebrows rose over the top of his sunglasses and that was all the warning they had before he turned and ran.

"Awww, come on!" Starsky whined, stamping a foot at the fleeing figure. "It's too hot for this!"

Hutch bounced a little in preparation for the chase. "Come on," he said, patting Starsky on the shoulder as he darted around the brunet.

The other bus drivers looked on in confusion and partiality. None of them moved.

Hutch quickly picked up speed, trailing Terry as he sprinted across the school grounds. The pressing heat burned in his lungs as he ran. Terry moved confidently towards the abandoned playground and quickly jumped the small retaining wall, landing in the mulch on the other side. Hutch followed closely, darting between two horse-shaped spring riders and around a teeter totter. He was aware of Starsky behind him and pumped his legs harder. This guy had to be running for a reason, and Hutch was determined to find out what it was.

Terry was ten feet from the edge of the playground when Hutch saw his opening. He was moving in at an angle and motioned for Starsky to keep moving straight before he leaped onto the bottom of a tall metal slide. The metal gave a little under the heavy impact, probably leaving a dent in the bottom of the ramp. Hutch scaled the slide, his shoes clanging as he moved, and leapt off the top and onto Terry as the man moved underneath. They both fell to the mulch with a grunt.

Starsky arrived one second later, gun out and cuffs dangling from one clenched fist. "Alright Gray, that was not a smart move. Give me your hands."

Hutch rolled to the side, allowing Terry enough space to comply. He was panting and sweating heavily, and his ribs hurt a little from where he had caught Terry's elbow.

Terry, dazed, offered no resistance. "Alright, alright, shit man. You have to jump on me like that? I think I broke something."

Starsky bent over the man, tightening the cuffs around his wrists as Hutch sat in the mulch, sweating. "Did you have to take off like that? It's two degrees from Hell. Now why'd you run?" He re-holstered his gun.

Terry scrunched up his nose, trying to straighten his sunglasses that had been knocked askew. "I ran cuz you chased me. Now are you gonna let me go? You don't have nothing on me."

Hutch caught Starsky's incredulous gaze. Terry had a head of light brown hair, almost as long as Hutch's, and the very start of a five o'clock shadow. His jeans were holy, but whether that was due to poverty or personal choice, Hutch couldn't be sure. Though he couldn't see his eyes, Hutch wouldn't put the guy over 30 years old.

"Your attitude isn't gonna get you out of those any faster, so I suggest you cut the defiant act and talk to us." Starsky glared at Terry as the man rose awkwardly to his feet.

Tired of squinting up into the sun, Hutch rose also.

"Fine. What do you want to know?"

"How about where you were yesterday between 6 and 7 am?" Starsky asked. He crossed his arms and wore that face that Hutch was so familiar with. The one that said he wanted answers.

"Before school started? I was here- wait a minute. Why are you asking me this? You think I did something to that bus driver?"

"Hey," Hutch interrupted. "We're the ones doing the questioning here. You just tell us the truth, got it?"

Terry looked mad, even behind his dark sunglasses. "Yeah. Fine."

"What do you know about Tom Bandy?" Starsky asked, taking control once more.

"I know he was a good guy," Terry said, suddenly remorseful. "Good friend."

"How long did you know him?"

"Uh… three years. He was here when I first got hired. Tom showed me around, introduced me. Great guy right from the start."

"So he loved his job?"

"Of course. You have to. You ever had to drive around thirty screamin' kids?"

Hutch snorted softly, imagining how Starsky would pull his hair out in that scenario.

Starsky shifted his weight. "Did you guys hang out a lot, outside of work?"

Terry shrugged. "Maybe once in a while we'd go get a drink. He was pretty quiet."

"He drink a lot?"

Hutch looked at Starsky.

"What? No, man. I told you, he hung out by himself a lot."

Starsky broke eye contact and faced Terry. "You notice anything different about him yesterday morning?"

"Different like how?"

"Answer him," Hutch growled quietly.

Terry looked a little nervous underneath the lenses. Hutch watched a bead of sweat roll down his temple as Terry answered, "No. I didn't notice anything."

Hutch felt his own sweat trickle down the length of his spine. Maybe it was time to take a break, or at least move into the air conditioning.

Terry seemed to notice Hutch's discomfort. "Look, are we done now? I'm boiling alive here."

Starsky sighed and ran a hand across his forehead. "Yeah we're done," he said, approaching Terry with the key to the cuffs. "Just make yourself available for further questioning, got it?"

"Yeah, man, whatever."

There was a soft clink as the cuffs were removed, then Terry rubbed at his wrists. Hutch rolled his eyes, watching as Terry turned and headed back to the bus barn without another word. Starsky and Hutch started walking behind him, moving slower to gain privacy.

"What do you think?" Starsky asked.

Hutch rubbed the sore spot on his side where there would surely be a bruise tomorrow. "I think he knows a little more than he lets on," he said, as more sweat dripped down his stomach. At this rate, his shirt would be soaked before they reached the Torino.

"We'll squeeze him more later," Starsky replied as they stepped over the rock retaining wall. "He's scared, he's not going anywhere."

Hutch looked ahead to the parking lot, and the waves of heat rolling off it. The Torino quivered like a mirage in the distance. "We need to dig up any of Bandy's relatives and see what they have to say." And that would stink, because it was poking at exposed nerves. But somebody had to bring justice to this accident, and it was one duty Hutch would gladly serve.

Starsky glanced at his watch as they passed under some large maple trees. "Let's call it a night. You wanna grab something from Huggy's?"

Hutch walked over the long shadows on the grass, realizing just how late it was getting. While there was still plenty of daylight, the sun was already well on its way into the horizon. How had the time flown by so quickly? While he was too hot to be hungry, perhaps a cold beer would hit the spot. "Sure," he replied as they stepped onto the blacktop.

Without another word, they were on their way.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Big thanks to Silent Train Conductee, not for help with the story, but for remembering my birthday and making me a wonderful gift. Thank you.

* * *

Starsky stomped up the stairs to Hutch's apartment. "This is getting really old," he muttered over the echoing scrape of rubber on concrete.

After leaving the bus barn and its shaken employees yesterday, he and Hutch had retreated to Huggy's, and things just seemed to go downhill from there.

Hutch had clamed up again, and despite all of Starsky's best tricks, the blond spent the majority of the night staring at the bottom of his glass. His dinner went just as untouched as his lunch, and for once Hutch had ordered more beers than Starsky. Not that that was a lot, mind you, but still. Hutch never out-drank Starsky.

Starsky grabbed the cool metal railing and hauled himself up over the last step. This was the second morning in a row that he had to leave the protection of the air conditioned Torino and retrieve his partner by hand. And it was getting old.

He had dropped Hutch off last night and returned to his own apartment for a little peace and quiet, where things still made sense. Trying to get Hutch to open up had proved exhausting, and fruitless. Quite frankly, Starsky was glad for their time apart. It gave him some much-needed time to recharge before attempting to open the Pandora's box that was Ken Hutchinson. After all, Starsky was not a mind-reader. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't help unless he knew exactly what was haunting his partner. Hutch was overreacting to an event that should have only caused some minor heartache and empathy- not full blown grievance and depression. Starsky had been there too, and he wasn't shook so badly. It's not like Hutch had a child on that bus.

Starsky reached the door and grabbed the handle with one hand and pushed his key into the lock with the other. He pushed open the door.

"Hutch, buddy, I'm gonna get you a new alarm clock for your birth-" he froze, taking in the scene before him. "…Holy…"

Bottles. Liquor bottles- not the cheap stuff- were scattered over the coffee table, uncapped, at different volumes of fullness, and glistening in the morning sun like a small crystalline city. Two empty shot glasses sat balanced on the edge of the table as if they were thinking about jumping, falling to the carpet below and reuniting with a larger glass that lay on its side. And all alone, an overseer and silent watchman to the ruins before it, sat Hutch's guitar. It was propped up against the corner of the couch cushions and looked for all the world like it had a story to tell.

"Uh…" Starsky began, suddenly remembering that he had a voice, "Hutch?"

A jolt of awareness prompted Starsky. He moved away from the open door and started for the most likely place his partner would have dragged himself- the bathroom.

Starsky's heart began to beat faster and a tingling of fear raised the hair on his arms. Images of Hutch, dead from choking on his own vomit, assaulted his mind before he could stop them. He passed through the bedroom, seeing but not seeing the drooping fern and discarded clothing, and approached the open doorway to the bathroom.

Yellow light poured over the small white tiles and Starsky couldn't hear anything from within. His heart was in his throat.

"Hutch?" he called, grabbing the doorjamb to remind himself that this was all indeed real. A second later, Starsky filled the doorway and found his answer.

"Hey," he breathed in relief as he moved forward. Hutch was crumpled in the corner, in between the sterile white toilet and the unforgiving wall. He was shirtless, his hair was disheveled, and he was clearly passed out. His legs were sprawled on the floor, his shoes were missing, and only one foot was wearing a sock.

Later, after many years down the road, Starsky thought that he might look back at this and laugh.

"Hutch, wake up," Starsky spoke, his voice loud and more sure of itself than he was. He moved forward and dropped to a crouch in between Hutch's spread legs and reached forward, landing a gentle slap on Hutch's cheek. "Come on, Hutch, time to get up."

Hutch winced and turned his head into the wall, bringing a small smile to Starsky's lips. "Morning sleeping beauty. You have a party without me last night?"

"Starsk?" Hutch mumbled, his voice gravelly and hoarse. His frown deepened, then at last, his eyes opened.

Starsky dropped a hand onto his shoulder. "How you feeling?"

Hutch licked his lips and groaned.

"Stupid question. Let me rephrase that- how many Tylenol shall I get?"

Hutch raised a hand to his pale face and rubbed his eyes. "The whole bottle."

Starsky snorted and pushed himself upright. "How bout we start with a few and see where that takes us?" He pulled open the medicine cabinet and grabbed what he was looking for. "Think you can get up?"

Like a newborn colt, Hutch gathered his legs and arms and slowly pushed himself up, using the wall behind him for support. A whimper escaped him and he tilted forward, slapping his hands to the wall to catch himself. "This sucks," he murmured, staring at the floor as he panted through an apparent dizzy spell.

"Well, my empty-headed friend, judging by the scene out front, I'd say you deserved it." He handed the pills to Hutch and caught his red-rimmed eyes. "Why didn't you call me?"

Hutch tossed the pills in his mouth and accepted the glass Starsky held out. He took a big swallow, then lowered his hand and pinched his eyes shut. "Cuz I wanted to be alone."

Starsky removed the glass of water before it fell from nerveless fingers and set it on the sink. He began steering his partner towards the bed. "But misery loves company, Hutch, everyone knows that."

Hutch's eyelids were at half-mast when they reached the bed, and he nearly collapsed onto the blanket. He promptly turned his back to Starsky and curled into a ball, effectively shutting off communication.

Starsky straightened. "Yeah, well. I guess I'll just go call Dobey and let him know we'll be a little late this morning."

He walked to the doorway and grabbed it, then turned back to his partner. A soft, steady snoring filled the air and Starsky knew he could do no more. With a sigh, he headed towards the mess in the living room.

o0O0o

"Starsky… what do you mean he's 'under the weather'?"

Starsky pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder as he snatched a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the coffee table. "Just that, Cap. I got here and he was a little… sick. Just give us a couple hours and I promise, we'll make up for lost time."

Dobey's growl rumbled over the phone line and echoed in Starsky's ear. "Fine. But do it fast, detective. We need this case cracked yesterday!"

"Yes sir, Cap'n." Starsky let the phone drop into his hand and hung up with a small sigh of resignation. He found each bottle's corresponding lid and screwed them on before placing them back on the shelf. "The things I do for you…" he mumbled to the empty room. He had made progress. The bottles were cleared and the guitar was in its normal place against the wall. Discarded clothing had been gathered and the mail straightened. But still… something seemed off…

Then he noticed it. He moved forward, hand out and open to touch the delicate, drooping leaf of some vine-like plant, and heard the soft crunch of brittle leaves underfoot. He stopped, and looked down.

Brown, dried leaves lay shattered on the carpet in front of his shoes. A few sickly yellow leaves lay closer to the bookshelf, collecting dust.

Huh.

This wasn't right at all.

Starsky looked up, his gaze darting from one dying plant to the next, and the images of sickly, naked plants burned in his mind. This worried him more than the table covered in alcohol… this was serious. Hutch loved the plants- he talked to them for God's sake- and now they were all dying? Starsky reached up and felt the soil of the plant in front of him. It was bone dry.

He drew his hand back slowly. Plants don't just die over night. It had to have been days since Hutch cared for them last. Days gone by while Hutch was too wrapped up in whatever was haunting him, hurting too much to throw some water on some dirt. He truly had been alone, with misery as his only company.

And suddenly Starsky felt very, very guilty.

o0O0o

Hutch glared at the person beside him from underneath his hand. His head was resting on the car window and his conjoined fingers were blocking the harsh sun from his eyes. Although the pain in his head had dulled, each jolt in the car's frame sent splinters of pain through his skull. Plus, Starsky was giving him the look.

"Would you quit?" Hutch growled, pressing himself closer to the passenger door. A hint of nausea found his stomach floating around in his rib cage and his neck ached from the awkward position he had slept in. Not to mention the yesterday's deep purple, elbow-sized bruise he found on his side was constantly nagging him.

At least he smelt better.

He had been able to make it through a shower on his own, and by the time he was finished, Starsky had a simple breakfast waiting on the table. Unfortunately, one sight of the scrambled eggs sent him running back into the bathroom, but it was the thought that counted. Now they were on their way to see Tom Bandy's family and hopefully get some much-needed answers.

"Quit what?" Starsky retorted, straightening a little.

"Quit staring at me," Hutch shot back. "You're looking at me like I'm made out of glass. I'm sorry about this morning, and thank you for what you did, but stop now."

"It's not that easy, buddy," Starsky said with a hint of malice that made Hutch feel guilty. "I'm worried about you."

Hutch wanted to keep arguing, to tell Starsky that he was fine, but he saw the rigidness of Starsky's jaw and respectfully kept quiet. Last night had been hell. He'd trudged upstairs, alone and in the darkness, and sat in the stillness of his apartment until the ringing in his ears nearly drove him crazy. He grabbed his guitar and a bottle of something, felt a little better, and ended up feeling pretty good and with lots of bottles. The bloody faces of dying children swirled around him, shrieking in the shadows of his apartment, and tormented him until he was so full of alcohol that he was completely numb. It all sounded so outlandish now, as he recalled the events in his memory, but he had been so terrified last night that he was driven to the corner of his bathroom, clutching the toilet like a lifeline as he loudly expelled the contents of his stomach. He remembered the full body tremors, the paranoia that told him each whispered creak and groan of the building was the voice of a tormented soul… until finally, when the shadowy fingers could stretch no further into the light, he had passed out with exhaustion.

"Hutch!" Starsky shouted and Hutch jerked. "We're here."

Hutch turned away from Starsky's concerned gaze and peered outside. They were parked in front of a modest little white house, decorated by large shade trees and blooming flowers. A birdfeeder hung in the middle of the yard, drawing a crowd of fluttering songbirds. The roof was new and dark, the shutters were nicely painted, and a small red dog house sat cattycorner to the front door. The perfect American dream house. Hutch could almost smell the fresh apple pie.

And it made him sick.

"Let's go," Starsky said as he opened his door and got out.

Hutch followed suit. He stepped out into the too-bright sunlight and the choking heat and started through the green grass up to the house. Starsky joined him and as they drew close to the bird feeder, the birds took flight in a flurry of wings and chirps.

Hutch almost felt bad. Probably would have if not for this behemoth of a hangover.

A bouncy Golden Retriever came bounding around the corner of the house and greeted them enthusiastically. "Hey doggy," Starsky said nervously as the animal's tail swished wildly and its tongue scraped their hands frantically.

Hutch made a face and drew his hands away, wiping them on his shirt as they continued towards the house. The dog silently danced around their feet as it searched them with a black nose.

Hutch pushed it away and rang the doorbell.

"Some watchdog," Starsky muttered behind him. They stood together in the small vestibule, surrounded by concrete and potted petunias. A few seconds went by, and the dog threw itself down in the shade, then finally there was movement in the house.

The door swung open quickly. "Can I help you?"

The woman before them was plainly pretty. She was close to her forties, but needed little makeup to bend that truth, and had shoulder-length blond hair. She was dressed casually and in her hand was a feather duster, slightly gray with use. Her brown eyes regarded them closely as Hutch reached for his badge.

"I'm Detective Hutchinson, this is Detective Starsky," he introduced them, already putting the badge away. "We're-"

"You look terrible," she said bluntly, her gaze traveling down and up Hutch's body quickly. "Big party last night?"

Hutch was taken aback. "No… uh…"

Starsky stepped forward. "You're Mrs. Bandy, right? We're here to ask you some questions about your husband's accident."

Her face clouded over. "I was Mrs. Bandy and I've already talked to the police."

"I'm sorry," Starsky said, "But we've got some more questions now. This may not have been his fault."

She stopped whatever she was going to say and stared at them. "Well, then," she stuttered, backing away from the doorway, "You'd better come in."


	7. Chapter 7

"You'd better come in."

She backed away from the door and used the back of her hand to rub her bangs from her eyes. Hutch led the way inside, stepping lightly onto the newly-polished hard wood floor. The air conditioning cooled his perspiration instantly and he shivered a little.

The inside of the house was as clean-cut as the outside. A floral-print furniture set was arranged neatly around a shining wooden coffee table and a small TV set sat unused in the corner. Floral drapes decorated the windows and bright sunlight spilled onto a large area rug. To the left, an open doorway led into the kitchen and the scent of apples and cinnamon filled the air.

"Please, have a seat," Ms. Bandy said as she closed the door behind them.

"Thank you for your time," Hutch said as he sank into the overly soft, plush cushions. He felt awkward and gangly and he tried to rearrange himself, but it was no use. The bright, fuzzy rose blooms swallowed him whole. "We apologize for the inconvenience," he added as an afterthought, giving up at last and settling back.

"You said you had new information?" she asked, having a seat herself and looking quite comfortable.

"Ms. Bandy, have you-"

"Elizabeth."

"Excuse me?"

She sighed, shifting a little. "Call me Elizabeth."

Hutch glanced at Starsky, who looked as awkward as he felt. "Okay, Elizabeth." His head was starting to pound again. "Were you aware that your husband was drunk at the time of the accident?"

The reply was meek. "Yes."

Hutch took a breath. "Did he drink often?"

The reply was even softer. "Yes." Her head was down as she wrung her hands in her lap.

Starsky spoke up. "Did your husband ever get into trouble? Get into any fights, make any enemies?"

Elizabeth glanced up and shook her head quickly. "I don't think so, no. He never told me much about where he would go."

Hutch leaned forward a bit and it felt like trying to climb out of quicksand. This couch was clearly made for shorter people. "Elizabeth, were you aware that the brake lines on your husband's bus were cut?"

Her eyes snapped up at that. "What?"

Hutch felt a stab of pain in his head and something dark slithering in his stomach. "Do you have any idea who would want to do this to your husband?"

Elizabeth brought her hands up to cover her mouth and Hutch couldn't help noticing how they trembled. She was also still wearing her ring. "No… I can't think of anyone that cruel." Her vacant gaze focused on Hutch. "You will find who did this, won't you?"

Hutch's gaze locked onto her watery brown eyes and he felt completely and utterly helpless. He could feel her need from across the coffee table and couldn't find the strength to look away.

Starsky broke the silence. "Yes ma'm, of course we will." He looked pointedly around the room. "You mind if we just have a quick look around? For any clues."

Elizabeth blinked and wiped at her eyes. "Um, no, of course not," she stuttered, rising to her feet. "Go ahead."

Hutch rose also, following Starsky around the living room. Elizabeth looked lost, standing with her arms hugging her torso as she stared at the floor. They wouldn't be able to get too much more information out of her. She looked close to breaking down, and Hutch didn't blame her.

Over the years, Hutch had gotten very good at reading people. He was no longer the doe-eyed kid from Minnesota who believed everything he was told. He had hardened, sharpened, and become more focused. He no longer took everyone at face value.

But Elizabeth was pure. He didn't quite understand it, but Hutch believed her- trusted her. You couldn't fake a pain like hers. The woman had lost the husband she was in love with, it was plain as day. And the fact that Hutch found himself so receptive to her pain scared him. Hadn't he learned to keep his emotions out of his work? Hadn't he perfected the art of erecting walls and hiding behind them?

Perhaps it was the innocence on her face. The knowledge that something terrible had been done to a good person. The same stab of sadness that cut through him each and every time he thought of that little girl he had held in his arms back in the bus. All the good things in life were being desecrated faster than he and Starsky could ever hope to protect them. And it wasn't fair. It saddened and angered Hutch at the same time, it just wasn't fair-

"Hey, look at this," Starsky murmured, elbowing Hutch gently.

Hutch blinked himself to awareness and looked down at what Starsky was poking with a pencil. A small, green opaque lighter reflected the sunlight as it moved on the bookshelf. Hutch's brows furrowed. Even under the smell of hot apples, he couldn't detect the smell of cigarette smoke. Surely with all the drapery and flowery upholstery, some of it would smell like tobacco. Hutch reached out and ruffled a curtain nonchalantly.

Nothing.

He looked at Starsky as the brunet withdrew his hand. Starsky had that look- the one that reminded Hutch of a dog guarding a meaty bone, and he knew better than to interrupt. Then something lit in Starsky's eyes and he practically ran to another shelf littered with photographs.

Elizabeth must have noticed Starsky's interest for she joined them silently. After a moment of looking at happy faces and better times, she spoke softly. "We were married for nine years. Would have been ten next month."

"I'm sorry," one of them, or both of them, murmured.

"You look very happy," Hutch noted, his eyes locking onto a picture of Elizabeth and her husband walking hand-in-hand down a beach.

"Tom was the best husband any girl could ask for. He never forgot a birthday, or an anniversary, or even a dinner date. Sure, he may not have made a lot of money, but he loved me."

The fondness hung in the air a moment before Starsky asked, "He drank a lot?"

"It was his only vice, you know," she replied. "He tried to stop once, but it made him so angry, so violent… I think it was hurting him." She sighed. "I should have gotten him help, I know, but I couldn't bear for anyone to see him like that. I couldn't bear to see him in pain any longer. He promised me he would cut back. He was such a proud man, you have no idea how devastating it was to see him so… needy. Helpless."

Hutch's thoughts were thrown back to his own time in hell, when he was locked inside Huggy's guest room and suffering from withdrawal. Starsky's thoughts must have been there too, for he said softly, "I get the picture."

Neither man looked at each other.

A clock on the wall chimed the hour and Elizabeth straightened. "Do you have any further questions, detectives?"

Hutch tore his gaze away from the collection of memories and looked at Elizabeth, suddenly finding even more respect for her. "I think we're done for now."

"Just one more question," Starsky said as she escorted them to the door.

"Of course."

"Do either you or your husband smoke?"

Elizabeth's brows furrowed. "No, of course not. Why?"

Starsky made his escape of the house and her question with practiced skill. "Just wondering. Thanks for your cooperation, Ms. Bandy."

Hutch stood in the open doorway, feeling like they owed her a little something more. "Uh," he started, withering under her sorrowful gaze. They were standing very close and her pain was palpable. "We'll keep in contact."

She nodded. "Thank you. And please, detective, find who killed my husband."

Hutch had been raised to respect women- to open doors for them and stand up for their honor and help them when they were in need, so when a single tear leaked from Elizabeth's eyes, he leaned forward those few inches and wrapped his arms around her trembling shoulders. He felt her heartbeat and her hitching breaths as she struggled to maintain her composure. They were, after all, standing in the open doorway with both Starsky and the entire neighborhood able to see them.

His hand made small circles on her back as they simply clung to one another, one lost person finding solace in another. Neither said a word for several moments, then at last she made a tiny movement backwards and he let her go.

Elizabeth sniffed and wiped at her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered.

Hutch studied her in silence, a gentle smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. She had helped him as much as he helped her. She had uncovered the compassion and caring that Hutch had been trying to bury for the past three nights. Perhaps this was one case that could not be solved stoically. Maybe he needed to use his emotions.

A deep rumble sounded behind him as the Torino's engine flared to life. "Thank you," he said, then turned and stepped off the concrete vestibule and into the grass.

The dog appeared at his feet as he walked, yipping and panting as excitedly as it had when he arrived. Hutch ducked his head against the sun and kept walking, the sudden onslaught of heat once again giving him a headache. The dog suddenly ran towards a red Mustang parked along the street, then back to Hutch, barking loudly.

"Gus, come here boy!" Elizabeth shouted from the doorway, and the Golden Retriever darted towards the house. "Please excuse him," she called to Hutch as the dog went inside. "He doesn't get many visitors."

Hutch waved it off as he opened the passenger door. He watched as Elizabeth went inside, then he climbed in the car. "She was nice," he mused, pulling the door shut. It seemed like an understatement.

"She was hiding something," Starsky replied, pulling away from the curb.

"Why, because there was a lighter in her living room? That seems like pretty circumstantial evidence to me. Heck, even I have a few matchbooks at home!"

Starsky kept his eyes on the road. "I think it's worth checking out."

"Take me home."

"What? Why?"

"Because while you're wasting time looking for the owner of a cigarette lighter, I'll be at the bus barn, questioning people and solving the case."

"Hutch-"

"No. She's innocent Starsky, I can feel it."

Starsky sighed. "Well at least have lunch first."

"I'll grab something from home. I'm sick of Huggy's burgers."

"How can you be sick of it? It's free."

Hutch knew he was getting sucked in to the 'Starsky Zone', but he couldn't stop himself. "It's not free, he just keeps adding it to your tab."

There was silence for a moment while Starsky thought about the implications of that. "He's not charging me interest, is he?"

"Five percent," Hutch lied.

Starsky swallowed. "You don't think the department could cover it, do you?"

"Yeah, right."

"But they pay for the gas for my car."

Hutch snorted. "No they don't. You just keep putting your receipt on Dobey's desk and he keeps taking it out of your paycheck."

"No shit."

Hutch laughed, and it felt good. He knew Starsky was playing the fool for his sake, and knowing that only made him appreciate his partner even more. Hutch realized for the first time in days just how blessed he was. Their time with Elizabeth had healed him somewhat, although Hutch had no idea how. Maybe Hutch was feeling alone with his grief; Starsky, after all, was more hardened, more trained to deal with things like this. Starsky had more experience in the field, had seen just how cruel and violent humans could be. Starsky had seen things that Hutch would only have nightmares about.

And then seeing Elizabeth, lost in her own little world of grief as Hutch was, made him feel not so alone. She just seemed to know things, and while it probably should have scared Hutch, he felt he could let his guard down just a little. Not have to act so brave and impenetrable.

"Alright, here we are," Starsky announced.

Hutch blinked and looked outside. His apartment building was looming overhead. "Right," he replied, and opened the door.

Starsky took a breath. "You sure you wanna split up?"

Hutch stood on the sidewalk and turned around. "Yeah, we'll get done twice as fast this way. You chase your lead and I'll chase mine."

Starsky looked hurt. "You wont forget to eat lunch or anything, will you?"

The look on Starsky's face was hard to ignore. Instead of volleying a sarcastic remark, Hutch smiled and said, "Of course. I'll be fine. I'll meet up with you later, okay?"

Starsky didn't look 'okay', but he nodded nonetheless. "Yeah, sure."

Hutch backed up and patted the Torino's roof as Starsky pulled into traffic. It was his own fault Starsky was concerned; if Hutch could just get his emotions in check, everything would go back to normal. Or, as normal as it ever was.

First thing was first- he had to get rid of this headache. Perhaps he would have lunch after all. A couple aspirin and a cold beer sounded really appetizing right now. Then, he would head over to finish questioning the other bus driers. After all, he had a promise to keep.

Hutch had his back to the street when he pulled open the door to his apartment building and disappeared inside.

Behind him, a red Mustang slid to a halt in silence.


	8. Chapter 8

Hutch sat at the small dining room table with a cold, sweating beer in his right hand and today's newspaper was spread out beneath his left. His hand trembled as it hovered over the stark print. He stared down at her familiar face and realized that now, the little girl in his nightmares had a name.

April Hylton, age seven. Died at Memorial hospital Monday afternoon. Hutch checked the date at the top of the obituaries. The girl must have died not long after she arrived at the hospital.

There were no specifics of her death, other than how her parents missed her very much and she hadn't deserved to die. Hutch snorted and took another drink. Of course she hadn't deserved to die. No child did.

Hutch let his fingers glide over the small, black and white picture of a happy little girl in pigtails. Maybe if he stared at this picture long enough, it would smother his memories of April's bloody face the morning he pulled her from the bus.

She'd have to have a closed casket, that's for sure.

Disgusted by his lack of compassion, Hutch tilted the bottle to his lips and swallowed the last remaining drops of alcohol. Unsatisfied, he slammed the bottle to the table and pushed back from the table roughly.

He jerked open the refrigerator and started to reach for another, then stopped. He of all people should know that drinking himself to oblivion would not help anything. He was better than that, plus he was supposed to be looking for April's killer. Hutch doubted anyone would take a drunken detective very seriously.

It was kind of like a sore tooth, Hutch thought as he let the refrigerator door shut. You could numb the pain for a while, but until you actually went to the dentist, you were only covering up the problem. The tooth had to come out. He had to get to the root of the problem.

No pun intended.

The only way Hutch would ever feel better about April's death was to find the killer and put him behind bars. Then, he would have done everything he was capable of. The healing would come later.

Hutch went back to the table and picked up the newspaper page. Gently, slowly, he tore out April's small obituary and let the rest fall back to the table. He brought the scrap of paper up to his face, studying that smiling face one last time, then pulled out his badge and tucked April away safely within the leather wallet. He would look up the parents later. He felt he owed them that.

Putting away his badge, Hutch took a deep breath and looked around. His apartment was starting to smell a little, like stale beer and stagnant air. He really should open a window or something. Even his favorite Aloe plant was beginning to turn yellow.

He'd water it later.

Hutch went to the door. His pain was numbed for now, and he'd pushed it down for the time being. He steered his thoughts to other things as he grabbed the car keys and headed downstairs.

He'd prove to Starsky that Ms. Bandy was innocent. She was a victim here, and Starsky was way off base with his assumptions. The woman was clearly devastated over her husband's death. So what if she owned a cigarette lighter but didn't smoke? There were plenty of other legitimate reasons, like maybe a friend had forgotten it or maybe it was for unexpected power outages. Hutch could not bring himself to believe that that kind, motherly woman had anything to do with the havoc of three days ago.

Hutch stepped outside into the heat and this time, didn't think twice about the temperature. It had been over one hundred degrees for so long, it was hard to imagine a time when it had been any different.

The LTD was parked in its usual spot along the curb, looking very much like a permanent fixture on the street. Hutch stepped off the sidewalk and rounded the hood, then grabbed the door handle.

Something banged in the shadows of the alley, and Hutch froze.

His hand fell away from the door as Hutch stalked around the car. "Hello?" he called, slowly reaching for his gun. After all, there was a difference between 'safe' and 'paranoid'.

There was a scraping noise, the sound of metal over concrete, and Hutch stopped at the alley's opening. "Who's there?" he called, his hand wrapping around the butt of his gun.

A dog emerged from the shadows, stopping to stare at Hutch as it held a crumpled hamburger wrapper in its mouth.

With a nervous sigh, Hutch released his gun and relaxed his shoulders. "Damn dog," he muttered, feeling incredibly stupid and relieved at the same time. The scruffy animal flicked its ears and trotted away, its long tail held high in mockery.

Hutch returned to his car quickly, his movements hurried and deliberate. He did not have time to hunt dogs. A murderer was on the loose. He yanked open the driver's door, sat inside, and started the engine as he pulled the heavy door shut. The engine started its deep rumble, and although the sound wasn't as steady and strong as the Torino's, it sounded like today would be a good day.

Hutch pulled the car out into the street and joined the flow of traffic- or what little of it there was. It was the middle of a work day, although this street never seemed to be congested anyway. That had been part of the appeal to Hutch when he had found this apartment. He was lucky to live such a short distance from the beach yet not have to deal with lost tourists. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, unmindful of the single red car some distance behind him.

He coasted through a green light and turned west. He fumbled with the dials on the air conditioning, turning the fans on high and gritting his teeth against the blast of hot, tepid air. Hutch waited a few seconds, then gave up. Hoping for cool air had only been wishful thinking.

He turned the fans off a little too forcefully, then lowered the driver's window and propped his elbow on the doorframe. The air was still hot, but at least it was moving, and it felt good against his damp skin. Now, if only the radio would work…

Hutch coasted through another green light, turning off of Venice Boulevard and onto Pacific Avenue. He could smell the salt in the air. The ocean was to his left, stretching out across the horizon in both directions. As he picked up speed, the beach grew more narrow until it finally disappeared, giving way to a rocky shoreline butted right up against the elevated highway. Gulls circled above and dived into the waves, carrying small, flopping fish in their beaks back to some unseen shelter. Surfers dotted the ocean and further in the distance, large fishing boats were hard at work. Hutch wondered if April had liked the water.

He ran a hand over his face, hard, scrubbing away the tension. He had to stop this. He was obsessing about a little girl's death when children died every day on this planet. What made April so special?

The answer hurt. He had held her in his arms, and in that brief contact, Hutch had felt her trust seep into him and pierce his heart.

Up ahead, the traffic light at a three-way intersection turned red. Hutch lifted his foot from the gas pedal and dropped it on the brakes.

Nothing happened.

The pedal sank to the floor with no resistance and the car kept rolling forward.

Oh shit. Hutch's heart beat hard as adrenaline flooded his veins. He tried the brakes again, this time stomping on the pedal as the LTD cruised towards the intersection.

Not again… flashbacks of years prior exploded in his mind's eye and Hutch's panic increased. There were cars stopped at the intersection, waiting their turn for the green light. The lane ahead of him was clear, and Hutch pressed a palm to the horn in an effort to keep the other motorists in their place.

He was halfway through the intersection when a second horn sounded, followed immediately by a hard impact to the passenger-side door. Hutch caught a flash of dark blue as the LTD caved inwards, glass shattering and tires squealing as it gave way to momentum and was pushed over the side of the road.

The car broke through the guard rail like it was a finish-line ribbon and slid down the steep, rocky incline towards the pounding waves. The side of Hutch's head was hot and numb where it had collided with the steel doorframe. Under the thundering sound of smashing rocks and twisting metal, he could hear more tires squealing as other vehicles slid to a stop in the intersection above.

The LTD bounced and lurched towards the ocean. Gravity pulled the car engine-first into the water and the car's grill broke the frothy waves with a splash. The sudden impact slammed Hutch's head into the top of the steering wheel as the car went almost completely vertical. Black spots swelled in his eyes, temporarily clouding his vision.

Then, like a dream, everything fell silent. Water rushed up and around the car, greedily pulling the vehicle into its depths. Hutch was belatedly aware that his feet were wet. Everything seemed to be swirling around him- maybe it was- and the vertigo was nearly overpowering. Suddenly a rush of water came in through the open driver's window and the cold water drenched Hutch from the waist down.

He finally started to struggle as water pressed against the cracked windshield. The car was sinking fast. Something warm covered the side of his head and the air reeked of salt and burnt rubber. The squealing, groaning engine finally died just as Hutch grasped the roof and started to pull himself free. As water flooded the car, it was pulled into the water with enough force that Hutch felt himself being pulled with it. Frantically, he climbed through the window and chest-high saltwater, just barely keeping his head above the waves as huge bubbles gurgled and sloshed around him. With one last surge of energy, he pushed off from the car just as the rear end flipped up, the trunk now where his head had been half a second ago.

The car glug-glugged a noisy decent as Hutch treaded water, shell-shocked. A second later, the car was completely gone.

"Hey, are you alright?"

Hutch looked up, squinting as figures appeared on the roadside. He looked back to where his car had been.

One last silvery, gelatinous bubble rose to the water's surface and popped.

Oh yeah, he was fine.

"Mister, can you hear me? Are you okay?"

Hutch turned his attention back to the bystanders. "I'm fine," he called, but his voice was so weak he doubted anyone heard. A figure was sliding down the incline towards him and several large rocks plopped into the water a couple feet away.

"Stay there, I'm coming to help!"

Hutch's eyes refused to focus, but he started moving towards the embankment. The saltwater stung his eyes and tickled his throat and thick sea foam crackled around his jaw. His head felt like it was made of lead and his temples were being squeezed in a vice, but otherwise he was miraculously unharmed. The LTD had been struck from the passenger side, saving him from any shattered arms or legs.

Underwater, Hutch's shoes scraped over slick, algae-covered rocks and he reached out blindly. A strong hand clamped around his forearm suddenly he was being pulled from the choppy waves. His clothes weighed heavily on his body, further slowing his already sluggish movements. He stumbled and fell to his hands on the rocks despite his rescuer's best attempts.

"You okay? You need to sit down for a minute?"

Hutch shook his head, feeling that if he didn't make it up to the road now, he never would. His hands grabbed at the loose, jagged stones and slowly, with the help of a blurry, heroic bystander, they scrambled up the incline.

More hands grabbed him as he reached the pavement. Hutch was hauled forward a safe distance from the steep embankment and he collapsed to the pavement. The blacktop seared his skin through his saturated clothes and the bright sun forced his eyes shut. Voices swirled around him and Hutch barely understood that an ambulance had already been called. The pain in his head was the only thing he was aware of. His lungs burned and his muscles ached and he thought that maybe it would be nice to fry upon the road right where he lay.

Warm fingers were pressed to his throat and Hutch groaned to confirm that yes, he was still alive. Please do not attempt CPR.

Seconds- or minutes, as time was irrelevant now- ticked by and suddenly the sound of squealing tires and a police siren filled the air. Hutch recognized that vehicle- the tire skid and pitch were a signature of the Torino. Reluctant to let Starsky find him sprawled over the highway like road kill, Hutch rolled to his side and attempted to sit up.

The barely-familiar shape of his rescuer appeared in front of him and Hutch felt himself being guided upright and gently pushed backwards until his shoulders hit something solid. Hutch blinked rapidly and brought a hand to his eyes, rubbing away the salt from both the ocean in his own tears. His head felt swollen and when he could finally keep his eyes open, he heard a car door slam and a familiar voice shouting.

"Hutch! Hutch, what happened? I heard a call about an accident- where's your car?"

Hutch blinked slowly. "Starsky? Slow down." His vision and hearing seemed to be disconnected from each other, like a badly dubbed movie.

Starsky reached forward and touched Hutch's temple. "That's a lot of blood. Let's get you to the hospital, huh? Can you get up?"

Hutch jerked away from the touch, still trying to bring his surroundings into focus. Blood? He was bleeding? That would explain some things…

When Hutch still hadn't attempted to get up, Starsky enlisted the help of the dark-haired man that had pulled Hutch from the water. "Okay partner, the car's right over there, okay? Think you can make it that far?"

Hutch had just found the blob of red Ford when he was flying through the air. He stumbled, trying to get his legs underneath him, and felt his stomach twirling. The ground was moving and he was aware of shoulders holding him up by his armpits. Hot, watery saliva filled his mouth at the pain and vertigo. "I think I'm gonna-"

Hutch doubled over and heaved, puking up slime, salt water and beer. Through barely-open eyes, he watched the liquid splatter onto the road.

"…think he's going into shock…"

"…ambulance on the way…"

"…drive him, it's faster…"

Hutch let the words whorl around him like the red and yellow leaves of fall. Starsky was here somewhere, and that was all that mattered. He moved across the road and towards the large shape of the Torino, then was placed inside and arranged on the seat. Air conditioning hit him in the face, and Hutch shivered as the cold air froze the water and sweat slicking his skin. The door shut beside him, a shape moved across the front of the car, then Starsky appeared beside him.

"Alright partner, let's get you checked out. You still with me?"

The car started to move, and Hutch, aware of Starsky's voice but not his words, nodded and let his head rest against the back of the seat.

o0O0o


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note- Not much left now! Thanks to everyone who has been reading, and even more thanks to those who take the time to reveiw. The ending will not dissapoint you. (evil giggle)

* * *

With trembling fingers, Hutch smoothed out the scrap of newspaper as gently as he could. The wet print was delicate and limp, and it took all of Hutch's concentration to not rip it. When it was laying flat on the arm of the couch, he grabbed the corner of the afghan and pressed it down gently, sandwiching April's obituary between the absorbent materials. 

Behind him, Starsky was poking around in the kitchen. They had driven home from the hospital in near silence, but even that was loud enough. After being subjected to every type of scan and x-ray and examination the hospital had in its possession, Hutch was released into Starsky's care with a moderate concussion and an assortment of miscellaneous bumps and bruises. He had been lucky in many ways. He wasn't at the bottom of the ocean right now, he was still attached to all his appendages, and if the hospital had found any traces of alcohol in his blood, it hadn't been enough to point out. Hutch was thankful he had stopped at two beers.

A pot clattered to the floor, making Hutch jump. Pain exploded in his head and he growled, "Take it easy over there, Starsky. You'll wake up the neighbors."

"Well maybe if you'd put a little time into organizing things instead of creating booby traps, I wouldn't have to duck every time I open a cabinet."

Hutch closed his eyes and used his fingertips to massage his temples. "Nobody's making you cook diner. You can leave anytime you want."

"I don't think so, buddy. I signed papers, remember? You're in my custody for the next 48 hours."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"You need a friend."

Hutch bit his tongue against a reckless reply. He was tired but jittery, frustrated, and not in the mood for company. Over the past few nights, he had found solace in his solitude and now he craved it. Starsky was just being his usual cheerful self, but as much as he appreciated the effort, Hutch was just not in the mood. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and went back to carefully blotting the small square of newspaper.

Starsky must have sensed that he'd won, for his voice was light and unconcerned. "Dobey called while you were getting x-rayed. They towed your car to the garage. You were right, the brake lines were cut."

The refrigerator door was opened and closed, then something heavy set on the counter. Hutch couldn't bring himself to look, afraid the churning in his stomach would increase at the sight of food. He lifted the afghan and lightly touched April's face. It was still damp.

Starsky's news didn't surprise him, and he couldn't bring himself to react with more than a quiet "Hmm."

"Did you see anyone hanging around your car?"

"No." He pressed the afghan down again.

"We must be getting close. It's too big of a coincidence. Someone is getting nervous, we just need to figure out who."

Hutch rolled his eyes. Isn't that what they had been trying to do this whole time? If he had any sort of clue, the suspect would be in jail right now. Hutch felt his temper growing and with practiced ease, pushed it back down. He felt on-edge, nervous and fidgety. He glanced around for a bottle of alcohol, knowing full-well he would never be allowed to drink it but yearning nonetheless. Starsky was ruthless about that sort of thing, and as long as Hutch was on painkillers, he wouldn't even be allowed one beer.

Maybe he could sneak away. Hutch eyed the door and tried to think of a valid reason to run to the convenience store- alone.

Suddenly Starsky was beside him and lowering a steaming bowl to the coffee table. "Eat," was the one-word command and Hutch eyed the bowl before him.

"What is it?" he asked, his stomach already lolling.

"Soup," Starsky replied as he moved back to the kitchen. "It's beef and vegetable, the kind you add water too. It was about the only thing in your pantry."

The last words held a hint of… annoyance? Pity? Hutch made no effort to feed himself and instead watched as Starsky plopped down next to him. "What's that?" he asked, eyeing the bowl of pink, chunky substance wearily.

Starsky dropped a half-empty bag of tortilla chips between them and rested his feet on the table. "Dip," he replied, crinkling the bag as he grabbed a handful of chips. "Like I said, the cupboards are bare. Thankfully, I'm a master at microwaving cheese and salsa." He dunked a chip into the bowl, ate it, then held it out to Hutch. "Want some?"

Hutch winced. "It looks like vomit, Starsky. Where'd you find the cheese?"

"It was in the door of the ice box. I woulda used Velveeta, but this was the only thing you had."

Hutch suppressed a groan. "Starsky, that was a block of mozzarella I was saving to use in Chicken Parmesan!"

Starsky looked at the bowl. "Oh." He studied the concoction thoughtfully. "It is pretty stringy, now that you mention it."

Hutch shook his head and rode the wave of pain that accompanied the movement. If there had been a flicker of hunger within him, it was gone now. His stomach flip-flopped acrobatically and he tried to block out the crunching sounds next to him. He turned back to the arm of the couch and checked on April's obituary. It was nearly dry.

"You need to eat."

"Not now, okay? I really can't." Hutch peeled the newspaper off the couch and held it in his lap.

"Whatcha got?"

"Nothing." He suddenly felt embarrassed about his possession and moved it to his lap, covering it with his hand.

Starsky didn't make a move, but Hutch could still feel those eyes upon him.

The silence pushed harder than words and Hutch found himself rambling, "It's nothing, okay? Just a newspaper clipping… I… I just don't want to talk about it right now, okay?" He didn't want to get all emotional. His connection with the dead girl was unexplainable, and he didn't think Starsky would understand.

"Fine," Starsky replied, going back to his chips and dip. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to. How's your headache?"

"Pounding," he replied, quickly shoving the obituary into a nearby magazine.

"It'd probably help to eat something."

"Starsky, no. I said I'm not hungry, alright?" His tremors were worsening and the room seemed to be getting colder. Was this a side effect of the hospital pain killers?

"Okay, okay. I give. You look like crap, though. Are you tired?"

Grabbing onto any excuse for his irrational behavior, Hutch quickly agreed. "Yeah, I am," he said, jumping up and circling the coffee table. "You okay on the couch tonight?" Stupid question, Hutchinson.

Starsky merely raised an eyebrow. "I think so…"

"Okay, well, you know where everything is." Hutch stood in the doorway to his bedroom, feeling extremely awkward. Starsky nodded, and Hutch took a breath. "Well, goodnight then."

"Night," Starsky returned through a mouthful of chips.

Hutch shut the door quietly and leaned back against it. What the hell was wrong with him? Starsky probably thought he was losing it. Hell, he thought he was losing it. The room moved slowly around him as Hutch struggled to calm his racing heart. He hated to think about how his headache would feel at full boar, without the pain killers.

Hutch steadied himself and pushed off from the door. He made it to the bed and plopped down heavily, his arms quivering from the strain of holding his own body upright. The gnawing ache for alcohol was overwhelming and his body itched with it. What was happening to him? Hutch looked around the bedroom, need overcoming fear, and miraculously, he found a near-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand.

He grabbed it, ignoring the warning bells screaming from the back of his mind, and downed the last couple of ounces. It was not enough, not nearly enough, but it took the edge off. The alcohol's warmth crept through Hutch's veins like something dark and sinister, bringing with it a false sense of calm.

He shoved the bottle under the bed and lay down, letting the sedative soothe him.

o0O0o

Starsky poked at the sizzling pancake absentmindedly. After Hutch had went to bed last night, Starsky cleaned up as quietly as he could. It had taken all of his control not to barge in the bedroom and badger his partner into talking. Starsky knew Hutch well enough to know that the blond needed his privacy, and Starsky would respect that. He made himself wait for four hours, then went into to make sure Hutch was still breathing. Those were doctor's orders, after all.

Starsky had woken to the sound of his watch's alarm several more times throughout the night. Each time he checked on his partner, he had found Hutch asleep- sometimes deeply and sometimes not- but getting the rest he needed nonetheless. When dawn arrived and sunlight bled through the curtains, Starsky was up making himself busy. He straightened up the apartment, finding it messier than usual. He washed the dishes, picked up the various dead leaves that littered the carpet under the yellowing house plants, and gathered discarded clothing in a pile in the corner. It was busy work really, an effort to return things to a state of normalcy. Hutch's behavior last night had been confusing and erratic. Starsky chalked it up to the painkillers, knowing how Hutch rejected that sort of chemical influence. Hell, Hutch had almost died yesterday- he was entitled to some mood swings.

Blinking, Starsky shoved the spatula under the pancake and quickly flipped it. It hissed and crackled as the wet side landed in the butter. He sighed, the lack of sleep finally catching up to him, and set the utensil on the counter.

A movement in the corner of his eye startled him and he turned, finding Hutch standing in the doorway of the bedroom. Painting a smile on his face, Starsky greeted him. "Morning." Just test the waters first…

Hutch stared at him for a moment, his blond hair raised from his scalp on one side, then finally he returned the smile. "Morning."

So far, so good. "You feel like eating?" Starsky asked, removing the golden pancake from the skillet.

Hutch didn't move but his vision turned inward, as if he were consulting with his stomach. "Guess that depends on what you made."

Starsky poured more batter then grabbed the plate of pancakes and set it on the kitchen table. "See for yourself. You're lucky I found anything at all. When was the time you bought food?"

Hutch blinked.

"That's what I thought. Now come over here and sit down."

Hutch looked hesitant and Starsky realized that Hutch was purposely hiding in the shadows. He reached out, shook the bottle of pain relievers, and cooed mockingly, "Come here boy, come and get 'em. You can do it…"

Just like the shy puppy Starsky was imagining, Hutch made his way into the sun-lit apartment and plopped down at the table. As he checked the cooking pancakes, he heard Hutch shake out some pills and lift the glass of nearly-expired juice from the table. Knowing Hutch equated the need for the pills with weakness, Starsky waited until he heard the glass return to the table before turning around.

"So, after you get yourself cleaned up, we're going to head back over to the school. See if we can squeeze anything out of the other drivers." He let the words hang, hoping Hutch would agree with the plan.

The blond picked up a fork and poked at the breakfast. "Yeah, sounds good," he said, and Starsky felt uneasy at the subdued tone in his partner's voice.

"You sure you're up for it?"

"Of course. I want this guy, Starsk."

Starsky went to the table and pushed the almost-empty bottle of syrup closer to Hutch's plate. When Hutch ignored it, Starsky rolled his eyes. Hutch continued pushed pancake bits around his plate, giving the faint illusion that he was indeed eating.

Starsky sighed a little and moved back to the skillet. He was glad that Hutch was sill interested in the case, but if Hutch didn't start acting more like Hutch, Starsky wasn't sure what would happen. He didn't like this sullen character Hutch was turning into. And he certainly couldn't use him as a partner. Attempting to lighten the mood, Starsky announced, "I didn't fry it in fat, Hutch. It won't clog your sparkling arteries."

Starsky thought he saw a blush just before Hutch stabbed a piece of the pancake and ate it. Inside, Starsky cheered. He was winning.

"Thanks for staying last night," Hutch said as Starsky scrapped his own breakfast onto a plate.

Starsky sat at the table across from Hutch. "Nowhere else I'd rather be." He grabbed the syrup and began to eat with much more enthusiasm than the other man.

He felt Hutch's eyes on him for a long minute. He recognized that form of heavy silence; Hutch was debating within himself. It was the type of silence Hutch exuded when he wanted to tell Starsky something but was afraid to at the same time.

"What?" Starsky said as he looked up, giving Hutch an opening to speak his mind.

Hutch blinked and dropped his gaze to his barely-touched breakfast. "Nothing."

Feeling bold, Starsky pushed. "You know you can talk to me. Just come out with it already."

"It's stupid," Hutch said, shaking his head.

"Come on, Hutch. Just tell me."

"No."

"Did something else happen yesterday? Do you know who sabotaged your car?"

"No," Hutch said, and pushed away from the table. "I told you, it's nothing. I'm going to get a shower now."

Starsky cursed silently. He had pushed too hard, and lost. Sighing, he told himself that Hutch would talk when he was ready, and he began to finish his pancakes.

o0O0o

"So where were you on the morning of the ninth?"

"I was driving my route, detective. I arrived at the school minutes before I started hearing sirens."

Starsky studied the white-haired woman before him. Lydia Baker was the paradigm of grandmothers. Her deep but soft wrinkles were covered over with light-colored makeup and her deep blue eyes twinkled as she spoke. Her modest clothing looked hand-sewn and was trimmed in lacey ruffles.

The woman was in her late fifties and had been working for the school district for nearly twenty years. Of all the bus drivers, she was the oldest of both age and employment. Which meant she would know the other drivers the best.

"What can you tell me about Terry Gray?" Starsky asked, feeling somewhat guilty as the plump woman squirmed uncomfortably. He doubted she'd ever been so close to a law officer before.

Lydia frowned so fast, Starsky wasn't sure if he'd even seen it. "Terry is a decent man, I suppose," she said thoughtfully. Everyone seems to like him enough. Why, is he in trouble?"

"Do you like him?" Hutch asked, ignoring her question, and Starsky was surprised to find that he'd almost forgotten the blond was there.

Lydia folded her hands in her lap and twirled a large, sparkling ring around her finger. "There's something about that young man," she started slowly. "He is very quiet, and he likes to watch people."

"Watch people?"

Lydia looked over her shoulder quickly. "Terry almost never joins our conversations or card games. He usually stays in the corners, in the shadows, smoking a cigarette and just… watching."

"No one's ever said anything to him?" Starsky asked, his interest in Terry deepening.

"Oh, we've tried many times to welcome him, to treat him like one of us. He stays away by his own choice, I'm afraid. He's pleasant enough though, if you talk to him."

"We've talked to him," Hutch muttered, one hand rubbing his side.

"What do you know about Tom Bandy?" Starsky asked, hopefully switching to an easier topic for the old woman.

Lydia smiled. "I'm afraid I know more about his wife, Elizabeth." Her gaze traveled beyond the concrete walls of the bus barn. "We're very close friends. I actually drove her to school, long ago. Poor little Lizzie didn't have many friends, despite what a beautiful young lady she was becoming. I had just became a bus driver and didn't have many friends either, I suppose. I had just moved here from Georgia, you know."

Starsky smiled but steered Lydia back to the focus of the conversation. "So you were close with Elizabeth? You were friends when they were married?"

"Oh yes," Lydia replied with a wave of her age-spotted hand. "Tom was a good man back then, very loving and a hard working, devoted husband."

"Back then? He wasn't recently?" Hutch asked, shifting in the creaky lawn chair.

Lydia's face darkened again and her hands fell into her lap. "Over the past few years, Tom grew angry. He withdrew from us," she waved her hand to signify the other bus drivers, "and the man Elizabeth fell in love with began disappearing. She'd call me sometimes, on the nights when Tom had gone to the bar. The past month seemed to be the worst. He'd be so hung over that he'd call in to work, claiming to be sick. And then Elizabeth started getting bruises."

"He was hitting her?" Starsky felt something stir within him, and he leaned forward.

"She'd never tell me," Lydia sighed. She played with a ruffle on her shirt sleeve. "We all wanted to believe that Tom would pull through this. He was always responsible with the children- never drove when he had been drinking. We simply covered his shifts and prayed for him to get better."

Starsky bit back an ill-tempered comment. "How well did Ms. Bandy know the rest of the bus drivers? It sounds as though you were all very close."

Lydia smiled warmly. "Oh, we were very close. We'd have holiday parties together, barbeques… Elizabeth and I would often go shopping together."

"Would Terry attend any of these get-togethers?" Hutch asked.

"No, but he was at Elizabeth's house quite frequently. Elizabeth would say Terry came over to see Tom, but now that I think about it, I've never seen the three of them together."

Starsky looked at Hutch, and Hutch looked back. "Are you sure about that?" Starsky asked. A discovery like this could bust the case wide open.

Lydia grew very still as she though about it, then nodded. "Yes, I am sure. Each time Terry was at Elizabeth's house, Tom was not there."

Like a hound that had caught scent of it's quarry, Starsky rose quickly from the chair. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Baker." He extended his hand to her as Hutch rose as well. "I think we have enough information for now."

Lydia looked between the detectives. "I hope I haven't said anything to cause either one of them trouble. Terry can be a nice man, and Elizabeth-"

Starsky's hand wrapped around her soft and wrinkled one. "Don't worry Mrs. Baker. We won't tell anyone what you told us. You just worry about yourself, alright? Try not to let those ankle-biters get the best of you."

Resignedly, Lydia nodded her head and offered a small smile.

Once Starsky and Hutch were back in the Torino, Starsky announced his suspicions with enthusiasm. "So Tom Bandy is spending more and more time at the bars, and Elizabeth is home alone, and lonely. Either Terry notices this, or Elizabeth downright asks him to come keep her company. I mean, they already know each other through the school district."

"And he would have had too have seen the bruises, especially if they were having an… affair," Hutch continued, adjusting the vents so the cold air blew directly on him.

"So he either assumes that Tom is hitting her, or Elizabeth tells him, and Terry starts to resent Tom, and the pain he's causing Elizabeth."

"Assuming he has _some_ shred of decency in him, like Lydia said."

Starsky held a hand over his eyes to shield the blinding sun. "Terry wants Elizabeth all to himself. Let's assume that Terry is the one to cut the brakes on the bus. You think it was just coincidence that the same morning, Tom shows up for work drunk?"

"Could be. But what about my car? You think he'd sabatogue _my_ car? And why?"

Starsky thought for a moment. They had only talked to Terry for a short time yesterday. At that time, they hadn't pegged him for a killer. Starsky tried to recall their conversation. "What could he have said to him that would cause him to come after you?"

Hutch blinked, his hand freezing over the dial for the air conditioning. "Maybe it's not what he said to _him_ that got him upset."

Who else had they talked- "Elizabeth? You think he followed us to Bandy's house?"

"We hugged, Starsk. If he was there, he saw that. Maybe he got jealous. Wanted me out of her life too."

Starsky rubbed a hand over his mouth. "So everyone Elizabeth comes in contact with is a potential target."

The detectives sat in silence for a moment, realizing the weight of that statement.

When they made eye contact again, Starsky spoke calmly.

"I think we need a warrant."

o0O0o


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note- be forewarned, our boy goes through some emotional trauma and acts a little out of character. Nothing gorey. (grin)

* * *

Starsky had asked once, long ago, what is was that Hutch missed most about Duluth. It was one of those innocent, trying-to-stay-awake questions that Starsky always seemed to think of when they were on an overnight stakeout. The guy could really make you think sometimes, and once Hutch figured out his answer, he thought about it on every stakeout thereafter.

The crickets.

Hutch had grown up to the song of those damn insects. His warmest memories often revolved around them. He thought of ice cream, of wide open spaces, his grandfather, wooden porches, sweet-smelling breezes and clear, starry skies. And laced through it all, was the melodious chirping of crickets. Imagining the sound brought feelings of happiness, just as the sound of a bell brought Pavlov's dogs to salivate. Despite whatever else he was feeling at the time, Hutch would always smile when he thought of the crickets.

"Whatcha thinking about?"

Starsky's quiet question broke the silence inside the Torino and Hutch lifted his head from the window. "Nothing," was his immediate response, followed closely by, "Home."

Starsky nodded.

"You ever miss it?" Hutch asked, the leather creaking as he straightened in the seat, then looked at his partner.

"What, home? Sure. Why else would I call ma every week?"

Hutch didn't answer, instead letting the question bounce over the foul line. Starsky had proved another difference between them. Why was it that the thing Starsky missed most from home was his family, and the first thing Hutch had thought of was the crickets? Suddenly Hutch felt lonely, and shallow. Why didn't he miss his mother? Why didn't he call her every week as Starsky did? Why didn't she ever call him? He turned red as he realized there were days when he didn't even think about her.

Hutch sighed.

Starsky looked at him, concern lowering his eyebrows. After a moment, he asked, "You see anything yet?" in the tone he took when he was trying to distract Hutch.

And bless him for it. Hutch shook himself from his depressing thoughts and looked down the dark street. They were parked inconspicuously across the street from Terry Gray's apartment. A solitary streetlight stood at the end of the street, blinking in an irritating rhythm that upset the moths that fluttered about it. The street was quiet save for the occasional car passing by, and the echoing bark of a large-sounding dog. Night had fallen over the city hours ago. The temperatures were beginning to cool now, and nocturnal rodents were finding their way to overflowing garbage bins.

Starsky and Hutch had determined earlier that Terry was not home. His neighbors weren't the most hospitable bunch, but fortunately for the detectives, the one-word answers they were provided with had proved helpful. All they had to do now was wait.

And waiting is what they were doing. Under the cover of darkness, the detectives had sat quietly in the car for hours, with enough patience to rival a bird dog. Hutch wanted Terry so bad he could taste it. Not only had this scum ball killed two men, he had jeopardized a bus full of children, and left at least one woman widowed. And then he had gone after Hutch.

Hutch was a tolerant man, unless it involved hurting women or children. So in Hutch's book, Terry already had a big black mark next to his name. Arresting him would be something Hutch would savor.

Feeling his testosterone level rise dangerously, Hutch shook himself from his thoughts. He drew in a shaky breath, suddenly wishing for a shot glass full of something that burned. Fine tremors riddled his hands and a familiar feeling of need blossomed within him. He hated what was happening to him yet didn't have the strength to fight it. Not yet. He could only deal with one problem at a time, and once Terry Gray was put away, he would be free to fight his personal demons.

And he would triumph, he always did.

"Car." Starsky announced just as the strong beam of headlights pierced the darkness of the street. An engine rumbled lowly as the car crept forward, preceding the sleek red Mustang that slid past them.

Starsky and Hutch remained still as the Mustang coasted to the side of the road and its brake lights flared. With a small squeak, the car stopped, and the engine was killed.

Hutch's eyes lit up as he focused on the shadow stepping out onto the sidewalk.

Once standing, Terry took the cigarette from his mouth, shut the car door, blew out a cloud of smoke, then turned and headed for the building, replacing the glowing cigarette in his mouth.

Enough of this bird-dogging. It was time for action.

"Let's go," Starsky murmured as both detectives reached for the doors.

Hutch felt his heart beat stronger and adrenaline starting pouring into his veins. His gun felt heavy against his ribs as he stepped out onto the concrete and hurriedly shut the door behind him. He rounded the hood of the car and wondered if the Torino had always been this large.

"Hey Terry, hold up a second, buddy!" Starsky called out in his most non-threatening voice.

Terry had his hand on the door to the apartment building but froze at the sound of Starsky's voice. He turned slowly as the detectives trotted towards him, and took a drag of his cigarette, keeping silent.

"Hey, we just wanna ask you a few questions, alright?" Starsky panted as they came to a stop.

Terry eyed them wearily, keeping his head down and his eyes in the shadows. "Questions about what?" he countered.

"About what really happened the morning of the accident," Hutch said coolly, positioning himself so that Terry was cornered.

"I already talked to you guys about that," came the guarded reply, followed by a puff of smoke.

"Yeah, but silly me, I forgot to write it down," Starsky said. "Care to repeat your story, one more time?"

Terry was definitely on edge as he eyed the detectives. "Not particularly. Now if you don't mind-"

"Lemme tell you what happened that morning," Hutch broke in, slamming a hand on the building's door as Terry had started opening it. "You had finally had it with Elizabeth Bandy getting knocked around by her abusive husband, so you decided to do something about it. You slithered into the bus barn, cut the brake lines, and went on about your business. Were you figuring on Tom getting busted for bad driving, Gray? Did you think the problem would just take care of itself, that he would be able to think coherently enough to pull the emergency brake and simply get himself fired?" Hutch was inching closer, unaware when Terry thumped against the brick wall behind him, unable to retreat any more. "You didn't realize that Tom Bandy would show up for work that morning drunk, did you? Tell me that you didn't realize he wouldn't be able to save himself, much less the entire bus full of kids."

"Hutch-"

"Tell me you're not that much of a monster that you would use those kids as pawns in your screwed up, pathetic life!" Hutch was panting, and aware that he was close to losing it, but he couldn't stop himself. Days of anger and spite had built up inside him and the dam was bursting.

Terry had dropped his cigarette and it lay at his feet, still smoking. He looked into Hutch's eyes, fear clouding his own dark eyes, and Hutch noticed that the man was shaking like a leaf.

Hutch was proud of what he saw.

A hand on his arm startled him and Hutch snapped his gaze to his partner.

And that was all the distraction Terry needed. Like a jackrabbit, he darted between the detectives and ran full-bore down the street.

A curse slipped from Hutch's lips as he exploded into action. His blood was boiling as flew down the street in pursuit, fueled by a foreign mixture of anger and hatred. Later, Starsky would say it was like 'watching the leash and muzzle come off', and Hutch would feel remorse.

But not now.

Now Hutch was suddenly grateful he had spent so much time jogging, as his body quickly fell into an energy-efficient pace. Terry was running blindly ahead of him, frantically knocking over trashcans and cardboard boxes as he ran through the alleys. Hutch was gaining, hopping over the obstacles with deadly precision and completely unaware of Starsky trailing behind.

Sweat was flowing down Hutch's spine and temples in the hot, heavy air. His lungs burned with exhilaration and the pounding of his heart was barley detectable under the pounding of his feet. Hormones flooded his body and mind, driving him on, keeping him locked on his target. He was out of control the way Bruce Banner lost control to the Incredible Hulk. Hutch had snapped, becoming a thing bent on finding justice.

This would land him on the shrink's couch for sure.

Finally Terry stumbled and Hutch ate up the little distance between them. He tackled the wiry man and they both fell to the ground, hard.

Terry didn't have a chance. Hutch scrambled for purchase and flipped Terry onto his back, ignoring the horrible smoker's cough and wheezing sounds as the man struggled for breath. Hutch hit his knees on the warm pavement on either side of Terry, straddling the struggling man. He leaned forward, grabbed two white-knuckled fist-fulls of Terry's shirt, and lifted the man's torso from the ground, shaking him.

"You are one sorry sack of crap," Hutch growled, panting heavily over top of Terry. His biceps trembled as they held the prone man off the pavement. "You know what they do to baby-killers in jail?" he taunted, giving Terry another shake. He was burning up and his heart was racing.

Terry, seeming to have realized his arms were still functional, began a desperate attempt at freeing himself. Hoarse coughs echoed in the alley as he pushed against the detective above him. "Screw you," he wheezed, "Elizabeth is free from that scum. She loves me now. I'd do it again if I could."

Before he knew what he was doing, Hutch shoved Terry down and pulled back a fist, striking before Terry could even flinch. His knuckles broke skin and connected with wet bone and muscle, instantly giving Terry a horrific black eye. Pain exploded in Hutch's hand and he welcomed it. He drew back and struck again, planting Terry's opposite cheek on the pavement. Hot adrenaline fueled him now, and there was no stopping it.

A muffled voice sounded over his shoulder- his shoulder angel, he supposed- telling him, begging him to stop, but Hutch ignored it. It wasn't until he felt a pair of hands grabbing at him that he realized it was Starsky.

"Hutch! Knock it off, he's down!"

Tensed to the point of breaking, Hutch ripped through Starsky's meager restraint and hit the unconscious form beneath him one more time, his gun clanging against his ribs as he moved. His fist met the torn flesh of Terry's cheek and blood splattered upon the impact.

Then he stopped.

Hutch looked at the destruction under him- the damage he had caused with his own hands- and he went limp. Starsky's hands were on him again, firmer this time, more sure of themselves, and Hutch climbed off the beaten man. He moved away as quickly as he could, colliding with the brick wall of an abandoned building, and sank into a miserable pile.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Starsky's voice came from above, sounding harsh and worried at the same time. "Look at…" he faltered, looking between Terry and Hutch with equal concern. "Hutch, look at me."

And Hutch did. His lungs were still burning and he was panting as hard as he could, sucking in the warm night air for all he was worth. He was a trembling mess, and another look at Terry sent bile shooting up his throat.

He had crossed the line he himself had drawn.

Starsky held on through the convulsions, patting Hutch's back in a way he didn't deserve. He had become nothing better than Terry, and the realization sickened him more. The tension melted from him until his face now inches from his own mess and Hutch saw that his own knuckles were torn and bleeding and suddenly very sore.

"Come on," Starsky murmured, hauling Hutch upright and propping him against the wall.

But Hutch still hated himself and he wasn't ready to be forgiven for what he had done. He didn't deserve kindness right now, especially not Starsky's, and he pushed his partner away then attempted to stand on his own.

"Not now," he growled, refusing to look Starsky in the eye.

"Hutch-" Starsky said in that arguing tone of his, but Hutch started moving away.

"Not now, Starsky!" he snapped, limping from exhaustion. "I… can't."

He used the wall for support, a fine layer of grit scraping his fingers as he moved, and stepped carefully though the scattered trash. He needed to get away, get drunk, get his emotions in check.

At any other time, Hutch would have realized how illogical that was.

He heard a noise and turned back to see Starsky placing cuffs on Terry's unconscious body. He looked up at Hutch with coldness in his eyes. "You stay here while I bring the car around."

Hutch blinked defiantly. "Leave him here. You'll get blood on your precious car seats."

Starsky rose and took a step forward, possibly the only person in the world not intimidated by Hutch, ever. "You did this to him, you stay here and watch the prisoner. He'll go through booking and be sent to jail where he belongs."

Hutch took a deep breath quietly. "Fine. But hurry, it's hot out here."

Starsky shook his head in a very disapproving manner and began the trek back towards the Torino, leaving Hutch alone in the alley. A large, bold rat scurried past the opening, not giving the detective or his charge a second glance.

Hutch sighed loudly and sank to the ground once more. His back scraped against the stone through his shirt until he came to a hard stop on the ground. He brought his knees up and rested bony elbows upon them, suddenly feeling very tired. Defeated. Sober.

He watched the rise and fall of Terry's chest in silence.

I'd do it again if I could.

What could drive a man to the lengths Terry had been driven to? Was there some force that could lock a person's brain to one track, turning them off to all other consequences? Was there something abnormal in Terry's mind, or did everyone possess the ability to become so horrifyingly violent?

Hutch looked at his own bloody hand and stopped. His breath caught in his throat and for a moment, his heart stopped beating.

He hated what had just happened, and he sincerely hoped he would never see that side of himself again. If it meant spending a few hours with the department shrink, then so be it. His gaze locked on Terry.

Suddenly he wasn't so proud of himself.

Minutes ticked by and just as Terry was beginning to stir, the Torino appeared at the end of the alley, mars light twirling silently.

Hutch felt a stab of pain when he realized he had been denied the ability to stick the light to the roof, a function he had preformed ever since they had become partners. Starsky would periodically rant about the chipped paint on the roof of his beloved car, and Hutch would offer to pay for a repaint. It had been one of those silly quirks that defined their relationship, and this time, Hutch had been found wanting.

Hutch picked himself up as Starsky approached, his footsteps louder than normal. "I already called the captain," he stated, walking straight past Hutch and towards the waking Terry. "Help me get him in the car so we can go home." Very threateningly he added, "We need to talk."

He moved forward obediently and grabbed Terry under one damp armpit, and together they hauled the man to his feet. Hutch felt himself growing angry again, on the cusp of another mood swing. So he had gotten a little rough with the guy, so what? Terry had pled guilty. It wasn't like he didn't have it coming. Hell, Hutch should be considered a hero. He was the only one who had the guts to give the guy what he deserved. He'd get a slap on the wrist by the higher-ups and that would be the end of it. Case closed.

He wasn't scared.

He and Starsky dragged Terry closer to the Torino, both men glaring at the ground. Grunting, Starsky opened the passenger door and together, they shoved Terry in the back seat.

His only response was a semi-conscious groan.

o0O0o


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Notes: This is short, I know. I just wanted to prove that I am in fact, still alive. Probably only one more chapter after this.

* * *

"Just what the _hell_ were you thinking, Detective?"

Hutch watched a meaty fist crash down on the desk's cluttered surface, sending ripples through a styrofoam cup of stale black coffee. He blinked at the sound, and the burning in his tired eyes lessened. His gaze traveled up Dobey's clenched fist to his outstretched arm, his slightly-stubbled cheek, then to his angry eyes.

With an even, unflinching glare, Hutch stared right back. Beside him, Starsky said nothing. "I was thinking about what he did to those kids, Captain!" he shot back, heart racing and blood pumping. He was sitting ramrod straight in one of the uncomfortable chairs that faced his superior. The office door was shut, sealing them- and their words- in.

"Determining the punishment of criminals is not in your job description!" Dobey replied, every word sounding strong and final, daring Hutch to counter them. "Your job is to find these creeps and bring them in. Nowhere does it say that you have the right to beat them to a pulp!"

"I-"

"Shut up, Hutchinson," Dobey snapped with a pointed finger, and Hutch's jaw clicked shut. This was killer on his pounding head. Nonetheless, Dobey continued to roar, "You were way out of line tonight. Do you understand the severity of your actions?"

Hutch's chin was tilted towards his knees and he couldn't stop the quick roll of his eyes. "Yes."

Dobey looked at him expectantly.

"Yes, _sir_."

Dobey leaned back and his chair squeaked quietly, as if it were afraid to speak out of turn. The Captain scrutinized Hutch quietly, then looked at Starsky. "Where were you while this was happening, Starsky?"

Starsky lifted his head. He had nothing to be afraid of, after all. Hutch was the one in trouble. "I was with him, Cap'n," he said, half-heartedly jabbing a thumb in Hutch's direction.

Hutch noticed the silence that filled the room when Starsky didn't elaborate, didn't mention how he pulled Hutch from Gray, how he tried to stop his 'psycho' partner all along.

Hutch didn't blame him.

Dobey sucked in a deep breath, quietly eyeing the detectives in front of him. Hutch refused to meet his eyes, and simply waited for the judgment call.

Come on already. Just get it over with. His head was killing him and his knuckles stung when he flexed his hand. He knew he needed a shower, and a change of clothes, and a good, long drink to stop the tremors in his muscles.

At last, Dobey shifted forwards, planting his elbows on the desk as he picked up a pen and moved it through his fingers. "Hutchinson, I have no idea what the hell was running through your head tonight, but I don't like it. You've been off-kilter for a week now. Your reports have been worse than your partner's-"

"Hey-"

"Shut up Starsky," and Dobey resumed, again with the pointing finger. "Your beside manner is lacking, and the other members of this department are scared of you. Personally, I hate having a man out there running by his own agenda. You're not running on your own agenda, are you Detective?"

"No sir." If he kept his head down, maybe Dobey wouldn't see the lie.

Dobey shook his head twice, slowly. "What happened tonight was way over the line. I don't want to ever see it again, got that?"

Hutch felt rebellion swelling inside him, however he was able to keep it from slipping through his lips. "Yes sir."

"Because you two have the best solve rate in the district, I've been able to pull some strings. IA is going to be breathing down your neck for a very long time, and I can't say I feel sorry for you. You're also on paid leave until the department psychologist clears you. Understand?"

A corner of Hutch's mouth rose in a cockeyed grin as he stared at the worn carpet. "Yes sir."

Dobey stared at him a moment longer. "I put my ass on the line for you. Is there anything you'd like to say?"

The concern in the captain's voice surprised him. He looked up, finally meeting Dobey's eyes.

Was there anything he'd like to say? What was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to apologize? That wasn't going to happen. He knew he probably should, but his heart held no remorse for what he had done. No regrets. He had done the world a favor, and would do it again it he had to.

"Can I go now?"

For a split moment, Dobey looked hurt, then professionalism covered his face like a mask. "You may go, Detective. Don't come back until you get that head of yours screwed on straight."

Hutch rose, pushing past the cracks and pops in his joints. Without looking at his partner, Hutch moved to the door, aware of the squeak of leather behind him as Starsky moved to follow.

"Not you, Starsky."

Hutch paused, listening as Starsky sat back down. So they were going to talk about him behind his back, were they? Guess 'Me and Thee' had reached its limit after all, then.

Hutch grabbed the door handle, twisted it open and flung it open with way too much force, then stepped out into the bullpen, slamming the door shut behind him.

Starsky and Dobey stared at each other in the silence.

After a few moments, Starsky shifted and gave his captain a weary grin. "So, you seem upset about something, Cap'n."

Dobey chuckled in the way Starsky was hoping for. He tossed aside the pen he had been playing with and leaned back. "What's going on, Starsky?"

Starsky leaned back as well, his shoulders slumping. "I wish I knew."

"You're his partner, doesn't he talk to you?"

"Not lately."

"Have you tried?"

"Of course," Starsky replied. "He's upset about the accident. You know Hutch, always wearing his heart on his sleeve."

"I'm sorry to hear that-"

"Me too."

"-But I think you're missing something. He's angry." Dobey sighed again, sounding tired. "I want you to find out why. I'm giving you some time off too." His voice softened. "I don't care what you do, but just bring me back my detective, okay?"

Starsky nodded morosely. "Yes sir."

Dobey nodded once, towards the door. "Go."

Starsky rose and started to turn, then he stopped, looking back at the Captain as he began putting paperwork in order. "Uh, Cap'n?"

Dobey looked up. "Yes?"

"My reports… they're not that bad, are they?"

"Get out of here Starsky."

"Yes sir."


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Notes: The end is here. _sigh. _Thanks to everyone who's reading, even if you're not reviewing. Although I wish you would. _grin._

Now I present Chapter 12 and the Epi. And please, don't forget to check the song that inspired this fic, by Rob Thomas.

* * *

_'And if I stand here silent  
I almost start to feel you fading in  
Telling me hold on  
Cuz it's gonna be alright'_

Starsky eased the Torino to a halt under the streetlight and cut the engine. Thick silence filled the air in the absence of the car's deep rumble, causing Starsky's ears to ring.

Hutch's LTD was parked along the sidewalk up ahead, in its customary place over the oil stain on the street. The sun was just barely resting on the horizon now. Vibrant neon orange stained the sky and tinted the cars, obscuring their true colors. In the distance, dark clouds loomed leeringly and ominously, like tangible feelings of foreboding.

Yeah, this was gonna be miserable.

With a nerve-steeling sigh, Starsky pushed open the car door and stepped out onto the street. The temperature had dropped considerably and was no longer unbearable as it had been earlier. Grateful for that small reprieve, Starsky rounded the hood of the Torino and jumped up onto the sidewalk. As he passed the LTD, he heard the engine pinging and realized that Hutch couldn't have arrived much earlier.

Starsky grabbed the metal door handle and yanked it towards him before ducking inside. He was a man on a mission, and he ascended the stairs with grim determination. Dobey was right, this had to stop tonight. Hutch was drifting away and Starsky could no longer accept it. If Hutch wouldn't open up, than Starsky would handcuff him to a chair and torture it out of him.

Well, maybe nothing_ that _drastic.

Starsky reached the landing and stopped. He was tense, expecting a very hard teeth-pulling session waiting on the other side of the door. He didn't know what Hutch's problem was, but as his best friend and partner, it was Starsky's duty to find out and help. If Hutch was short on money, Starsky could loan him some. If Hutch was having girl-problems, Starsky could lend his expertise. If Hutch simply needed someone to talk to, Starsky could sit very quietly and just_ listen_. He'd do anything to get the old Hutch back, but first he had to find out what had happened to him.

Starsky rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath, set his jaw, and knocked.

He was met with silence, so in typical Starsky fashion, he knocked louder.

"Go away, Starsky."

Starsky frowned at the closed door. "No. Let me in. We need to talk."

"I don't want to talk."

"I don't care, lemme in. It's stuffy out here."

"This doesn't concern you, Starsk."

Starsky huffed. "That's where you're wrong, pal. This does concern me. It concerns me a lot."

He was again met with silence. He remained still for a few moments, trying to listen for any movement from within the apartment, then grew impatient and stepped forward, grabbing the doorknob.

He turned it, and the door opened.

Starsky raised one eyebrow in mild surprise, then stepped into the dark apartment. "I'm a little worried about you," he said, closing the door behind him. "We all are. You know you can tell me anything, right Hutch?"

He turned and faced the dimly lit room. The sun had sunk further into the horizon and the Starsky had to let his eyes adjust in the poor lighting. He spotted Hutch at the kitchen table, backlit from the greenhouse windows. As his eyes sharpened their focus, he noticed a bottle on the table before Hutch, its amber liquid distorting the light that passed through it.

"Whatcha doin'?" Starsky asked, his voice shattering the uneasy silence in the room.

"Sitting," Hutch replied curtly, not breaking his intense stare from the bottle.

Starsky sighed inwardly and began to creep forward, clicking on the lamp as he passed it. "Sitting?"

"And thinking."

"Thinking's good, unless you've been doing too much of it. Then you can hurt yourself."

Hutch snorted softly. Starsky made it to the table and slid into the chair across from his partner. Okay, now what? He studied Hutch, noticing for the first time how tired his friend looked. Worry lines looked permanently etched in his face and bags were hanging under bloodshot eyes. When had Hutch started looking so rough, and why hadn't Starsky seen it? Hutch looked almost… lost.

Hutch finally lifted his gaze from the bottle. An empty tumbler sat on the table by his limp hand. His other arm was on his lap, moving up and down as Hutch bounced his leg.

Make that lost, and… in conflict?

Starsky narrowed his eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Hutch said too quickly, too easily.

"What's this for?" Starsky asked, flicking his hand towards the bottle between them.

Hutch's eyelids lowered as his gaze fell back to the bottle and Starsky could no longer see those pained blue eyes. Hutch spoke softly, his leg still bouncing, and said, "I don't know."

There was a short, desperate laugh in the words and Starsky's concern increased. Hutch was breathing heavily, and his fingers began tapping on the table. Starsky had never seen Hutch in this state of constant, compulsive movement before.

He gasped quietly, and sat a little straighter.

Yes he had.

He had seen Hutch like this before, but the memories were so painful that they had been buried deep and he was reluctant to dig them up again. Images of bruises and blood and vomit and Huggy's spare bedroom came flooding through his mind before he could stop them, and Starsky's blood ran cold.

"Hutch," he said quietly, as you would talk to a spooked horse. He hated this, this feeling of complete helplessness, that he was being kept in the dark by his own best friend. How was he suppose to help if he didn't understand the problem? "What's going on?"

"I don't know!" Hutch exploded, pushing away from the table and standing in a movement so fluid, Starsky's head was spinning. Hutch began pacing the length of the couch, his shoulders impossibly tensed, his head down, arms wrapped around himself, and completely ignoring Starsky. "I just want to be left alone, okay? Can you do that for me? Will you just leave?"

Starsky rose as well, the fear of the unknown kindling a fire of determination within him. "Not until you tell me what's happened to you."

Hutch shook his head and continued moving, muttering to himself just low enough to irritate Starsky.

"Alright then," he said, taking a step forward and leaning against the edge of the table. "I'll just come right out and ask you." He swallowed something bitter and continued, "Are you shooting up?"

Hutch stopped dead in his tracks and looked Starsky dead in the eye. "No. Never."

Starsky hid his smile of relief. "What then?" he prodded.

If he hadn't turned the lamp on earlier, he would have missed it. Hutch glanced at the table behind Starsky with an unreadable expression, then turned and began his agitated pacing. Confused, Starsky looked over his shoulder, expecting to see a red-colored demon with horns and a pitchfork, but instead only saw the bottle of brandy.

The click was so sharp that Starsky felt it.

"Alcohol?" he questioned, turning back to Hutch. "You're… drinking?" It was more serious than that, of course, but each of them understood the deeper meaning.

"God I want to," Hutch said in a rush, as if he were relieved that Starsky had figured it out.

Maybe he was.

"I didn't though- not tonight… not yet."

Starsky's shoulders slumped in fatigue. "Hutch…" he started in sympathy. Questioned raced through his mind that he wouldn't dare speak out loud: Why didn't you tell me? How long has this been going on? Why didn't you come to me? He looked good and hard at the man he knew better than anyone else and felt pain. Why didn't you come to me? Hutch needed his help, that much was clear, and Starsky didn't want to alienate him further. Hutch was a bundle of nerves.

Raw, exposed nerves.

The apartment was quiet except for Hutch's shoes on the rug, and Starsky began forming a plan of action.

"Okay," he sighed at last, pushing off the table. "I'm here for ya. It'll be okay." He turned to grab the bottle, looking at Hutch as he did so. "First thing's first," he said, and headed for the sink.

"No!" Hutch practically yelped, and he left his track by the couch and launched himself in Starsky's direction.

Starsky danced out of Hutch's reach, the alcohol sloshing musically in the bottle. "Hutch, you don't need this! You have a problem, and I'm helping you with it."

"I do not have a problem," Hutch retorted and the look on his face told Starsky that_ neither_ of them believed that line.

"Look around you!" Starsky exclaimed, sweeping his free hand about the room. "I mean I know you're not the neatest guy on the planet, but come on!"

Just as the other day, dirty clothes lay in piles in the corners, dirty plates littered most of the surfaces in both the kitchen and front room, and as before, the neglected plants were clearly on their last leg.

Or root. Whatever.

In fact, the evidence was so glaringly obvious that Starsky was angry that he hadn't noticed it before. Some detective he was when he couldn't see the slow demise of his own partner.

Starsky made it to the sink and upended the bottle before Hutch could stop him. The liquor glugged and bubbled as it splashed down the drain, and the smell of alcohol filled the air.

Hutch watched with a glazed expression, then his eyes snapped to Starsky, glinting of pure hatred. "You idiot," he growled, then moved towards the cupboards.

A low, deep rumbling sounded from outside and it took Starsky a second to recognize the sound as thunder.

He waited until Hutch pulled out another bottle, then darted forward and snatched it from Hutch's hand. "Don't do this to yourself, Hutch," he said, quickly unscrewing the cap and upending it as well.

Hutch made a noise of frustration and quickly retrieved another bottle.

Starsky grabbed that one as well, a little surprised by his multiple successes. Hutch stood in place, utterly _seething_ with anger. He was tense and panting and looking for all the world like a bull before a matador.

Starsky stood his ground.

"Drinking won't help, Hutch," he said calmly, and finally the last the bottle was empty. "You know it wont. You're addicted, just like you were with the heroin. I can-"

"It's nothing like that!" Hutch shot back. "I drink because it makes me feel good- it takes away the pain of remembering those kids in that bus. I don't need your help, I can take care of myself. Now get out!"

"And for how long, huh?" Starsky pushed. "How many bottles does it take? How good do you feel in the morning? Come on Hutch, you're better than this."

Hutch lowered his head and his panting slowed. He seemed to grow larger in the shadows, and another roll of thunder boomed outside. Hutch waited one, two breaths before stating quietly, "Go home and leave me be. You were there that day, you know what it was like. I have every right to take a drink now and then."

"Every right?" Starsky asked, narrowing his eyes in challenge.

"I was inside that hell hole while you were parading around outside, playing traffic cop to all those mothers-in-distress. I held a girl with no teeth in my arms, Starsky," he spat the name like a curse, "so you tell me I didn't earn anything."

So here was the heart of the matter, Starsky realized. This went beyond what Terry Gray did- this was Hutch's failed attempts to cope with a tragedy and the alcohol's distorting effects on his feelings.

Oh, Hutch. What a tangled web we weave, huh buddy?

Starsky sighed and undaunted- familiar enough with addicts to know when they weren't in their right mind- he said, "You don't deserve to throw your job- your life down the john for a few drinks."

"Oh go to hell!" Hutch shouted, and he swept an arm over the counter, sending plates and glasses and empty bottles shattering upon the floor between them. The broken glass sparkled as a flash of lightening illuminated the sky.

Hutch had turned away, his shaky hands running through his hair, pulling roughly at his scalp, when Starsky spoke again. "What's the matter, Hutch? You can't face what you've become? You don't think I care about you?" he pressed, seeing the tension building in his partner but not daring to stop now, "You don't think I got my own eyeful that day? I saw you, remember? Puking your guts out on the side of the road. You don't think I wanted to be right beside you, doing the same? Get your head out of your ass for a minute, will ya?" Starsky took a breath. "This stops tonight."

Before he knew what was happening, Hutch had crossed the broken glass and landed a solid right hook to Starsky's jaw, sending him stumbling back against the counter. More glass fell to the floor as Starsky's hands shot out to catch himself, and another flash of lightening pierced the darkness.

Starsky brought a hand to his aching jaw and they stood still for a moment, staring at each other in broken silence and realizing exactly what had just happened.

"Starsk, I-"

Starsky shook off his stupor and pushed off the counter, launching himself at Hutch before the taller man could even blink. He crashed into his partner, momentum carrying them out of the kitchen and into the front room, and subsequently into the small wooden table holding the solitary lamp. Hutch fell as the object took his legs out from underneath him, landing on his back amidst the debris of wood and porcelain. Starsky fell to his knees over him, straddling him and pinning both arms to the floor by the wrists, rendering Hutch immobile and overpowered.

And the thunder rolled.

He stayed there for a moment, catching his breath and his emotions and essentially sitting on Hutch as the two panted and searched each other's eyes in the darkness. Starsky remained where he was, leaning onto his partner as Hutch bucked. "Come on, Hutch, snap out of it." Hutch's eyes were hard and full of anger, and his pupils were dilated in the darkness. Hutch was strong, even flat on his back, and Starsky wondered if he'd be able to hold him much longer.

At last, Hutch's struggles died and he yielded beneath his partner. His fists unclenched and suddenly Starsky could recognize the man under him. The worst of it was over now, Hutch's frustration was spent. Starsky felt relief as another roll of thunder boomed overhead.

"You hit me," he said lightly.

"You're sitting on me," Hutch retorted.

Starsky took a deep breath, smelling the sweat and testosterone that hung in the air, and released Hutch's wrists. He sat back on his heels and blinked away the redness that had clouded his eyes. "Because you_ hit _me."

"I think I've got a shard of glass lodged in my kidney," Hutch muttered as Starsky rose to his feet. He sat up, one hand going to his back, and looked at the remains of the lamp as Starsky lowered a hand of assistance. "I really liked that lamp, too."

"Yeah, well, I'll buy you a new one," Starsky mumbled as he pulled his partner to his feet. Starsky looked up and out the window as a flash of lightening split the sky, and he moved closer to the window before sinking slowly to sit on the floor. The window panes were still dry.

Hutch put more distance between them, sitting with his back against the bookcase, and they stared at each other across the expanse of the large window.

Starsky watched Hutch, only able to discern the glittering of eyes until the lightening flashed. "You okay?" he grunted with a curt nod.

Hutch shrugged. "Yeah."

Starsky rolled his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. "How the hell'd we end up like this, Hutch?"

Hutch lowered his head into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. "I think I have a problem," Hutch replied softly.

Something pinged against the window.

"Buddy, you got more than just a problem," Starsky grinned. "You are one screwed up White Knight."

Hutch snorted.

And the rain came. Big, fat, silvery drops pitter-pattered against the window, catching and reflecting the lightning's brilliant light as they rolled down the pane. The thunder was directly overhead and it shook the walls with its mighty rumbles. Soon the musical sound of falling rain filled the silence of Hutch's dark apartment.

"Would ya look at that," Starsky said, watching the rain. "First time in weeks. I bet the streets are steaming and hissing like hot frying pans."

Some of the tension drained from Hutch as he turned his face towards the window. "Sounds nice." He looked at Starsky. "How's your jaw?"

"It's okay, I think I'll live."

"You better get some ice on it."

"Don't flatter yourself."

Hutch looked at his shoes and the glittering of eyes disappeared for a moment. When he looked up again, he asked, "What now?"

"Now we get this place cleaned up, get you sober, get you back to work. Back to your life."

"That sounds like a lot of hard work."

"Yeah, well, nothing is really hard work unless you'd rather be doing something else."

"What great poet did you steal that line from?"

"Not a poet, an author. Barrie." At Hutch's blank look, Starsky elaborated, "Peter Pan?"

Hutch snorted lightly.

"And anyway, don't steal my glory."

Hutch's smile quickly faded. He looked a little pale, but it was hard to tell in the moonlight. "This isn't gonna be fun. You don't have to stay…"

Starsky sat up straighter as Hutch shivered. "I want to stay. Me and Thee, remember?"

Hutch closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. "What'd you and Dobey talk about after I left?"

"He's worried about you, Hutch. You know that. He gave me some time off, to help you through this."

"I'm not gonna be much company," Hutch replied before he swallowed hard. "This is being locked in the Pits all over again."

"We got through it then, we'll get through it now. You need anything?"

Hutch opened one eye and stared at Starsky, then looked at the kitchen sink.

"Anything besides _that_? Water? Food?"

"A loaded gun," Hutch groaned, burrowing further into the wall.

Starsky half-smiled and glanced at the closet door, assuring himself the weapon was out of reach. "No one said this would be easy. I hope you remember this moment the next time you think Jack is a better listener than me."

The thunder rumbled again, this time with a little less force. The storm sounded like it was passing, but outside the rain was still pouring.

"Look," Hutch said, his eyes still shut tight, "I wasn't exactly the best partner this past week. I know you covered my ass, and you have a right to be pissed at me…"

Starsky knew an apology when he heard it. "Like I said, just don't do it again, okay? I already bought your Christmas present, and it wouldn't look right on a new partner."

Hutch opened his eyes. "Wouldn't _look_ right?"

"Not at all."

Hutch rolled his eyes and let his head fell back against the wall with a thump.

Starsky was aware of the challenges that lay ahead for his partner. Tonight would be the hardest, and Hutch would probably always retain his thirst for alcohol. It would be very hard- hell, they usually finished out every day with a beer, but in the name of helping his partner, Starsky would go without. Tomorrow they would clean the place up, fight over what to eat for breakfast, and begin the long road to recovery- of both body _and_ mind- this time just a little wiser and a little stronger. Hutch was right, it wouldn't be easy, but together they would manage. They always did.

Starting tomorrow.

Tomorrow, when the fog lifted and the heartache ended.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

END

* * *

Epilogue:

Starsky sat in the Torino, parked a respectable distance away, and watched Hutch kneel before the simple granite gravestone.

It had been three weeks since 'The Night it Rained', as they called it. That night had been one long hell for them both. Starsky still shuddered when he thought about the vomiting, the pain, the mood swings… When dawn had finally cracked Hutch had been sleeping restlessly, but the rainbow that stretched over Bay City promised of good things to come.

And they had. Slowly, but surely.

In the following week Hutch had gotten his legs underneath him. He had restored the apartment to its usual state of mild disarray, whipped up some rotten-smelling concoction that slowly brought about most of his near-dead plants, and then passed the shrink's scrutinizing exam.

It was remarkable, really, to think that Hutch had bounced back so fast, but it was not surprising. Starsky had given up on being surprised by his partner. Not after said partner survives multiple beatings, bullet wounds, stab wounds and being trapped under his own car.

And the plague, don't forget the plague.

Nope, Starsky had come to think of Hutch as some sort of weird, mythical being that would never die.

Not that that was a bad thing.

Hutch straightened, leaving his bouquet of red roses on the ground over April Hylton's grave. Starsky sat a little straighter in the car as his partner approached. Hutch's bad days were few and far between now, and he had been welcomed back to the precinct with open arms. Tomorrow they would attend Terry Gray's trial, and Starsky had to admit, he was kinda looking forward to seeing that slime ball in chains one last time.

Hutch opened the door, letting in a wave of heat, then slid in and shut the door behind him. "Let's go."

Starsky started the engine and a deep rumble filled the cemetery. "You okay?"

Hutch looked at Starsky and smiled softly. "Yeah, I am."

Starsky stepped on the gas and nodded, returning his own smile.

"So about my Christmas present…"

Starsky shook his head. "No."

"I didn't get you anything."

"So?"

"Just so you know."

A sly grin crept over Starsky's face. "Wanna hint?"

"Yes."

"Remember, after we saw Bandy in the morgue? We were driving to the Pits for lunch and you said, _and I quote_: 'If you can get Dobey to approve a vacation, I'll go with you anywhere.' And remember where I wanted to go?"

Hutch's face fell. "Alaska. Starsk- you didn't-"

"Don't worry, I bought you the blue snow suit. I could have been mean and got you the pink one."

"Yeah." Hutch sighed, sinking down in the seat. "Thanks for that."

"Hope you like penguins and polar bears, my friend," Starsky beamed. "We leave in three days."


End file.
